Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  “Would any death—besides ours—upset you?”

  “Yes. I can’t stand Barston, but it would upset me if he was murdered. If, on the other hand, he chose to expire of apoplexy, I’d consider it his just desserts. I’m fond of three quarters of the serving staff. If the Master of the Household Staff expired of anything but old age, I’d be more shocked than upset. Jay, on the other hand, would be upset.”

  “Jay’s not entirely fond of the Master of the Household Staff, herself.”

  “No. She’s not a woman who inspires affection. She is a woman who inspires confidence. She keeps the House running. She’d reached a kind of armistice with Carver.”

  Silence. Teller eventually broke it. “Carver’s not here.”

  “And I’m incapable of his particular brand of charm. On most days, I don’t regret it.”

  “Today?”

  “I want to know why the Master of the Household Staff was in your office.”

  “She wanted to speak with The Terafin.”

  “She knows The Terafin’s not here.”

  Teller nodded.

  “And she came, anyway?”

  “There was a problem. If Jay’s not back within the fortnight, it has to be dealt with. She would prefer it be dealt with by the House Council.”

  Jester stiffened. “What kind of problem?”

  Teller shook his head. “At the moment, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Don’t start with me,” Jester said, approaching the desk.

  “I’m not. It’s my problem, not yours.” Teller reached for a folder on the corner of the desk. He handed it to Jester; Jester ignored it. “Guillarne’s commentary. All of it. Terafin is not implicated in the tragedy at the Merchants’ Guild, but the Order is now up in arms.”

  “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “Because while Carver is missing, you’re all we’ve got. I don’t know if anything Guillarne said will mean anything to you. But Finch is moving, and when she does, the rest of the House will begin to take up arms. If someone’s tried to kill her once, they’re not going to stop until and unless The Terafin returns.”

  Jester took the folder. He took the folder, turned, and headed toward the doors. He was angry. It was a restless, energetic anger. There was very, very little that Teller chose to withhold, and when he did, it had nothing to do with official House bureaucracy; Barston would probably die of the apoplexy Jester had mentioned if he’d ever listened in on some of the kitchen meetings.

  It answered the question that Teller had declined to answer. Teller was sensitive enough that he tried to avoid the narrow but very deep pits of rage into which Jester could fall.

  “Who?” he asked. “Who was it?”

  Teller was silent for a long beat. “Jester, it’s my problem.”

  “Carver would tell me, if he were here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gods damn it, Teller—who?”

  “Vareena.”

  “Vareena is twelve!”

  “She is with Daine, now. In the healerie. She’s safe for the moment.”

  Jester was white with rage. White, shaking, his own life at twelve filling the interior of his thoughts until there was almost no room for anything else. “She needed to be sent to the healerie.” He spoke softly. Soft meant nothing to Teller; Teller knew him too well. “Who did the Master of the Household Staff implicate?”

  “Let me deal with it.” Teller folded his hands across a closed book. Jester understood—dimly—that this had meaning. He did not want to fight with Teller. He did not want to hit him or injure him. And he thought he just might if he stayed.

  Had she been any other woman—even Elonne, at this moment—Jester would have marched into the domain of the Master of the Household Staff immediately. As it was, he chose to head back to the West Wing.

  8th of Morel, 428 A.A.

  Merchant Authority, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Haval dressed like a merchant of middling wealth. He chose his jacket and his pants with care, and after a moment’s bleak consideration, chose a hat as well as a walking stick with a somewhat ostentatious handle. It was not his favorite; it was far too decorative.

  But it was, as all things in Haval’s arsenal were, practical.

  He adored his wife, and reminded himself of this fact as he made his way to the Merchant Authority. He had chosen dark colors with a splash of obvious white, and presented himself to the guards—the very alert, very crisp guards—with an air of mourning and deference. It cost him very little. The guards were not at their best.

  But he understood exactly why. The roads around the Merchants’ Guild were all but closed to anything that was not foot traffic. The stalls that often huddled beneath the great trees of the Common were nowhere in sight. The shops that faced the guild’s main building had been closed; all except for two, and both of those belonged to jewelers who had the money and the status to ignore all but a direct request from the Royal Trade Commission itself. In Haval’s estimation, that would not be long in coming.

  The Mysterium, aided and directed by no less a person than the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge, continued to sift through the wreckage of the building. Magi had been at work reinforcing the support beams that had not been damaged or destroyed; carpenters and stonemasons from the Makers’ Guild were allowed entry, although they were escorted by either the Kings’ Swords or select members of the Order. The Merchants’ Guild had the funds to effect almost immediate repairs; Haval guessed that most of the building would be operational within a month. Perhaps less; he had recognized two members of the Makers’ Guild as he had made his way through the narrow path through which the public was allowed passage.

  The Merchant Authority was almost empty when Haval was at last given leave to enter. There were, of course, men and women behind the wickets, but the people who had come to do business at the Merchant Authority only barely outnumbered them. The Kings’ Swords, however, outnumbered them all. They were grim and wary. Haval was surprised to see them present in such numbers, and allowed this to show.

  Because the Kings’ Swords were on the floor, he was not particularly surprised to see two of the senior officials of the Royal Trade Commission when he entered the Terafin offices: Patris Larkasir and Devon ATerafin. They were seated. If the lower floor of the Merchant Authority was almost empty, the Terafin offices were not.

  Lucille ATerafin manned her desk like an army of one. She was pale, but the set of her jaw spoke of annoyance, not exhaustion. She glanced up from her desk as Haval paused before it. “Yes?” she asked, in the chilly and suspicious tone she generally adopted for strangers.

  “I have an appointment to speak with Jarven ATerafin,” he replied. “I am somewhat late, and apologize for my tardiness; I did not realize the extent of the gauntlet the Common has temporarily become.”

  “Jarven is currently in a meeting,” she replied. “If you will take a seat, I will inform him that you have arrived.”

  He bowed and retreated, glancing at Devon and Patris Larkasir as he headed toward a vacant chair. Given Lucille’s obvious displeasure, he was not surprised at the silence of an otherwise industrious office; there were at least four people behind visible desks, each bent over what looked like ledgers. They glanced at him as he passed them, but he failed to merit more of their attention; they were stealing cautious glances at the patris. Even Devon, notable within House Terafin for his many successes within the Royal Trade Commission, appeared to be beneath their attention.

  If this was the caliber of young men and women Jarven had chosen to employ, the appearance of intellectual frailty was not entirely an act. Given Jarven, that was unlikely. Lucille was more than capable of overlooking raw cunning for diligence and loyalty—but there was, in the covert gaze of at least two of the junior clerks, a touch too much obvious personal ambition. Not Lucille’s, then.

 
The door to Jarven’s room did not open quickly. Haval would not be certain, until it did, that this was not a move in some small game Jarven was playing. It would be very much like Jarven to strand Haval in a full waiting room to see what he did—or did not—observe. It was a trick that Haval had employed himself, when he had been in the business of training the overconfident.

  He waited. He noted that Devon was speaking with the patris; the patris had aged a good ten years in the last few months, probably most of them overnight. He spoke, with less care and more concern than he might in a more obvious crowd, about the destruction of the guildhall and the probable source of the resultant deaths.

  Devon made no obvious attempt to silence him. The patris’ genuine horror reflected the horror most of the Merchant Authority felt; it was a fitting tribute to those who had not survived.

  “When the magi have finished, we will know who—or what—was responsible.” The ATerafin Trade Commissioner glanced at Haval; Haval nodded in response, the gesture deferential and economical.

  “A terrible business all round,” the clothier said quietly. “My business here feels almost trivial in comparison. I’m not sure,” he continued, “when your appointment is—if schedules even matter this morning. But your business here seems to be far more weighty and far more official than mine. If it will be of any aid at all, I will withdraw for the morning; Jarven ATerafin is a member of the Merchants’ Guild and a surviving member of its governing body.

  “I am certain my business with him can wait.” He rose. To his surprise, Patris Larkasir raised his bearded chin.

  “The wheels of commerce must turn, Mr.—”

  “Arwood.”

  “Mr. Arwood. If the whole of our city grinds to a halt now, a blow has been struck that an Empire’s army could not land in so short a time. Our business with Jarven is perfunctory; a courtesy, no more.”

  “Ah. Jarven is of an age and constitution where courtesy matters much.”

  Patris Larkasir smiled. “He is, indeed. We are both products of an age I fear is passing. While the Merchants’ guildhall is under reconstruction, the Royal Trade Commission will house the activities of its governing body. The security in Avantari is tighter and more efficient than the security in the Merchant Authority—as we have seen. We have yet to find Guerrin ADurrance, living or deceased.”

  Haval’s expression was one of composed but tangible horror.

  “Jarven ATerafin is the senior member of the much-reduced council. It is my hope that he will oversee the temporary transfer of guild functions at this time.”

  “You mean Jarven to serve as the guildmaster?”

  “As the acting guildmaster,” Devon said, when Patris Larkasir nodded. “He is, of course, an older man and we do not wish to tax him overmuch.”

  This was preposterous. The Ten would be screaming for blood if Larkasir deposited Jarven directly into the position of guildmaster, acting or no. Jarven was the overseer of all of Terafin’s concerns in the Merchant Authority. He was now a member of the Terafin House Council, and although this was not yet general knowledge, it was only a matter of time.

  “Given his responsibilities in the Merchant Authority, I am not certain—at his advanced age—that he will be capable of doing as you hope.”

  “There is not another merchant who might, in such an emergency, cajole the terrified and the enraged to act in unison. I believe Jarven is that man.”

  Yes, Haval thought, he was. How many of those merchants would survive Jarven’s rule? Haval had guesses. None of them favored the merchants.

  “Finch ATerafin has been confirmed as Jarven’s successor,” Larkasir continued.

  Haval let his surprise show. He was absolutely certain that everyone else in the room was now doing the same; the pretense of minding one’s own business could only be carried so far.

  “Jarven sent word to the Trade Commission that her seal was to be treated as if it were his own; that in all things related to the Terafin merchant operations within the Authority, she had responsibility and power commensurate with his own. If that is true—and I cannot doubt it, given the message was sealed by Jarven himself—she is obviously capable of running the Terafin operation on her own. Jarven would be absent from the Merchant Authority for a limited amount of time.

  “We have sent a request to The Terafin to allow us to second Jarven during this crisis. We have not yet received a reply, but we cannot afford to wait at this juncture.”

  “Might I suggest,” Haval said quietly, “that you consider Hectore of Araven for the role if Jarven cannot be seconded? He is a man who is respected by the merchants and the governing body of the guild; he has been asked a number of times to take the position of guildmaster, and he has refused.

  “I do not think he would refuse were it asked—as a favor—in this crisis. I have never been an ambitious man, and in the early years, I was successful enough to support a small family—but the guild dues were beyond my meager means. It is only recently that I have reached a position where I am relevant to the guild, and where the guild itself is relevant to my interests.

  “But I have had some interactions with Patris Araven. Very few who are merchants of any standing in Averalaan have not. He is both respected and feared; if he asks a favor it has the weight of command; if he looks with disfavor upon a merchant or a merchant’s activities, their activities cease. I understand that you require a banner around which the merchants themselves might group—but Hectore is at least a decade younger than Jarven and he has not yet begun age’s inevitable decline.

  “I am under consideration for guild membership; I have not yet been admitted to the ranks of the guild. I understand how little weight my opinion might carry—but you are the head of the Royal Trade Commission; you have access to men in the upper echelons of the patriciate that I do not, and will never have. If my word does not carry weight, theirs will.

  “I understand your respect for Jarven ATerafin. But he is not the man he once was.” Haval bowed. “Forgive me for being so bold, Patris.” He bowed to Devon. “Patris.”

  “Mr. Arwood,” Lucille ATerafin said, in her cold, autocratic voice, “Jarven ATerafin will see you now.”

  • • •

  “I have had,” Jarven said, as Haval entered the office, “a very trying morning. I do not expect that your morning compares to mine in either difficulty or tedium, and I will not entertain either your complaints or your petty resentments.”

  “I note you have not mentioned the evening.”

  Jarven glanced at Finch; she was pale, her lips almost of a color with the rest of her skin. Her hair was drawn back and bound in a tight and glittering net; it was black. She wore more white than Haval considered appropriate for her complexion; she wore flashes of black lace at her wrists and her throat, and a sash of black around her slender waist.

  Imperial Mourning.

  Jarven was likewise accoutered. In Haval’s opinion, it suited the older man; Jarven had been responsible for a great many funerals in his time. If, Haval thought, his time had ever passed.

  “The evening was not tedious, as you suspect. It was, however, somewhat tense. I have seldom witnessed Sigurne Mellifas so distraught.”

  “It is to be hoped that you did not contribute to her distress.”

  “Given the nature of the things that are currently distressing her, I fear that is impossible,” Jarven replied.

  Haval turned to Finch. He offered her a perfect and correct bow. “It is my understanding that you are to take control of the Terafin Merchant Authority concerns.”

  “Haval, that is unsporting,” Jarven said.

  Finch’s lips tightened. She folded her hands on the surface of her desk. “That was not my understanding.”

  “Ah. Forgive me. I believe, in very short order it will be.” He looked across the desk to Jarven, sharp eyes bright behind the gentle folds of a pate
rnal smile. Haval could, of course, offer the same smile—but there would be far less obvious wolf in it.

  Finch’s smile tightened enough that it could no longer be called a smile. She turned to Jarven. “I would like a few words with you.”

  “And I, of course, would love to have them—but I fear there will be very, very little chance of that today. Haval?”

  Haval shook his head. “I, on the other hand, am a clothier. While I have been less pressed for time, I believe time is now of the essence. I require a series of fittings to be done, and quickly. I cannot produce appropriate mourning dress with the materials I have. Mourning is a gesture of respect,” he continued, when her lips opened on possible words. “But if I am not mistaken, you worked in this office during the Henden of 410.”

  Everything about this slender young woman stilled; her face was already pale.

  “Yes. You understand. On some occasions, Finch, the best sign of respect we can offer is to continue to put one foot in front of the other. The Merchant Authority will—no doubt—be both quieter and its activities more intense, in the days that follow. I have seen the damage done to the guildhall. I am not yet aware of the losses.”

  Jarven smiled and handed Haval a stone. It was smooth, gray, and unremarkable in all ways. “Peruse it at your leisure.”

  “You cannot possibly think,” the clothier said, “that I would take this with me, given its source?”

  “Of course not. Finch will take it with her when she leaves the office for the day.”

  “Jarven—this is not the time for games.”

  “Haval,” he replied, mimicking the clothier’s intonation and beat perfectly, “it is perhaps the best time for them. You do not wish to play, of course; you have grown so stodgy and dull in your advanced years it would be quite possible to believe there is nothing of interest left in you. Since that is what you want believed, I mistrust it, but that is my nature.” To Haval’s surprise, he rose. “You now wish to tell me that you were never interested in games.”