Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  The second was the real reason: someone had already attempted to poison Finch. Finch’s attempt to make clear that she was certain it would not happen again fell on the selectively deaf ears of an increasingly mutinous Lucille. Therefore, Finch used the cups. She knew a battle that she couldn’t win with any grace when she saw it, and in truth, she didn’t like to fight with Lucille. If it made the Authority dragon rest easier, it was worthwhile.

  And, to be fair, the entire tea set weighed significantly less.

  She lifted the tray and carried it to her office. Lucille disliked seeing her do it—for the first reasons, not the second—but Finch felt safe ignoring this. It was grousing. Lucille had never, in all of the years they’d worked together, taken any great pains about her own reputation. She wasn’t concerned if people condescended to her or attempted to ignore her. No one with any sense did it once; no one, period, did it twice.

  She had, however, always been protective of how Jarven was seen by the people who frequented the office. And Finch was now part of that office. If anyone could protect that reputation, it was Lucille.

  Finch, if a sometimes reluctant student of Jarven’s, had learned from him nonetheless; she was well aware that reputation was a shifting target. It was useful. In Jarven’s case it was now useful as misdirection. Experience was vastly preferable to hearsay.

  On some days Lucille opened the office door for Finch. She did so today. Jarven was behind his desk.

  Finch glanced at Lucille. Lucille pursed her lips.

  “Do not blame Lucille,” Jarven told her. “If you were not paying enough attention to notice that I had arrived, it is hardly her fault. She is not paid to warn or prepare you for inconsequential—and expected—events. Don’t just stand in the door; I have had a very trying morning, and I want my tea.”

  Finch smiled.

  “And do not give me that smile. Did I mention the morning was trying?”

  “You did.” Finch came and set the tea tray on Jarven’s desk. She pulled a visitor’s chair to her customary position, ignoring the desk that she occupied when visitors of any stripe arrived for a meeting. This did not make Jarven’s mood any sweeter; Finch thought he might send her scuttling for her own desk, given the shape of his brows as they folded.

  Instead he leaned into his chair, tilting his head back until it rested almost at right angles with the rest of his body. He closed his eyes, lifted his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and held it between them for three long breaths.

  “You are not, of course,” he said, eyes still closed, “to blame.”

  Finch nodded, although he couldn’t in theory see this. She poured tea, and set biscuits aside, while she considered the weathered, lined face of the man who was her mentor. Lucille was worried for him. She was also worried about him; they were not the same.

  But he had lost weight, to Finch’s eye. His color was off. He had been using his cane as if it were a necessity and not an artful affectation. And although he indulged in the characteristic petulance that defined so much of his interaction in the office, his heart wasn’t in it; he did not take his equally characteristic enjoyment from the reactions it invoked.

  “Please,” she said, “Do not tell me that you are bored.”

  He lifted his right eyelid. “I am weary.”

  “Yes. And in my experience, you are never so weary as when you are bored.”

  He did smile, then, raising his head and shifting in place so that he might pick up the tea that was steaming almost beneath his nose. “I am not, as you suggest, bored. I cannot, however, believe that I could ever be so much the fool that I envied members of the governing body of the Merchants’ Guild their power. And yet, I am somehow uneasily certain I was.

  “It is a very good thing that I cannot travel back in time and give my younger self the dressing down he so richly deserves.” He shook his head. “And here you are, of an age with that cocky, aggressive young fool—and no such dressing down is required. It embarrasses me.”

  “Please don’t be,” Finch replied quietly. “I know who suffers when you feel embarrassed.”

  He laughed. It was a dry, thin laugh. “Not, I hope, you.”

  “Not overmuch. But Lucille takes it badly.”

  “Lucille,” he said, somewhat acerbically, “takes everything badly.”

  “She doesn’t, and you know it.” Finch sat back in her chair, cup and saucer in hand, steam embellishing her view of the ancient Terafin merchant.

  “I do,” he replied. “But I had hoped, by installing you in your present position, I would shift some of the onerous burden of her worry onto your shoulders.”

  “I am perfectly capable of behaving in ways that will not cause Lucille additional stress.”

  “Indeed. It is not, however, your actions that will cause her worry.” Jarven took one loud sip of tea before setting the cup aside. “Has young Guillarne been causing difficulty?”

  “Not more than I can handle.”

  “That is hardly an answer, Finch.”

  “And yet it contains all the correct components: it is factual, it is a statement, and it touches upon the possible concerns you have raised.”

  He chuckled. “Guillarne would be a fool to take you on.”

  “He would be a fool not to,” she countered pleasantly, “if he desires your position. I will never be as uncertain in my post as I am now. I have never particularly liked Guillarne, but I have never said he was a fool. You have,” she added, as he opened his mouth. “But at the moment, we have lost enough.”

  “We have lost more than enough.” He fell silent. It was a quiet, steady silence, shorn of petulance and complaint.

  “Is it as bad as you feared?”

  “It is worse. I had almost forgotten how mendacious merchants could be; Patris Larkasir is almost beside himself with rage.”

  “How many of the merchant houses are attempting to take advantage of the current situation?”

  “Too many,” was his curt reply.

  “Guillarne is not among them.”

  “Not in the sense that the idiots who claim membership in the Merchants’ Guild are, no. I am generally tolerant of the games merchants play when the situation is relatively stable; I understand the urge to find something interesting with which to pass time.”

  “Boredom is not generally deadly.”

  “It is specifically deadly to me.”

  And Jarven, of course, shared. “You said you were not bored.”

  “I am bored. I am sick nigh unto death of writing letters and playing politics with what remains of the governing council of the Guild. I’m tempted to poison the lot of them and fill their positions with people who will not demand so much of my time for so little result.”

  “Hectore?”

  “He is, of course, being reasonable.”

  “Jarven—you wanted this.”

  “Yes. But I do not desire to be a crutch, and at the moment, that appears to be my only function. Oh, don’t make that face. I am doing it, regardless, and if I am to do the work, I am allowed the luxury of complaint.” He lifted his tea again. “If Guillarne is not causing difficulty, who is?”

  She hesitated.

  He marked it. “Well?”

  “We are not entirely certain. Have you spoken with Ruby?”

  “Ruby is not causing you difficulty; she is causing me difficulty. She can, I admit, be unpleasantly cunning—but she can only be in one place at a time—and believe that that place overlaps with much of my day outside of the haven of my office. Your Jewel chose a very inopportune moment to abandon us.”

  Finch nodded. “I am aware that Ruby does not feel that she is appreciated enough by the House. Much of her power resides outside of its very closed doors. I can,” she continued, “deal with Ruby.”

  “You are welcome to her.” He frowned. “You have wasted at le
ast ten minutes in hesitance. What have I said about that?”

  “I honestly can’t remember.”

  “You are worried.” He set the cup down, shifting position once again; his elbows now adorned the surface of his desk. His hands, steepled beneath his chin, emphasized the attention he now paid to Finch.

  “Yes.”

  “It is not a merchant matter.”

  “I am uncertain, Jarven. What occurred at the Merchants’ guildhall was not, in the end, a merchanting matter—but more than a hundred lie dead in its wake. No merchant of any power could raise effective arms against what was encountered there.”

  “You’ve read Guillarne’s report.”

  “I have.”

  “It is not just Guillarne’s report.”

  She exhaled. “No.”

  “You are not certain you wish to inform me of the events that do trouble you.”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  His smile was Winter in a face; slender, unadorned, chilly. “I would say that you are wasted here.” His voice was soft. “But I aspired to this very position with almost everything I had at your age—and I dislike thinking of my own life as a waste.”

  “Jarven,” she said, sipping tea and studying his glacial expression, “What I am, I am in part because you taught me. It has never been inconvenient for you because you have never aligned yourself against my interests.” Before he could speak, she added, “Nor will you do so now. You understand me. You understand me far better than I understand you; there is very little of my actual history that you do not know.

  “But you have always, always, encouraged me to be cautious of men in power; to do otherwise, with you, would be an insult that I will not tender.”

  His expression cracked as he laughed; the ice melted. Finch did not react—but she did, once again, sip tea. “I take it back; you are wasted here.” The smile once again fell away, but the chill did not return. “Demons?”

  This time, she set her cup down in the saucer and grimaced.

  “Finch. You cannot expect that I would have no idea, surely? The manse is my residence—when I am not forced to ride herd on the short-sighted and mendacious.”

  “At the moment, while demons are, of course, a pressing concern given events this past week, I am worried about Duvari.” She was certain the distaste the name produced was not feigned.

  “If you must mention that name in my office—”

  “Our office, surely?”

  One brow rose in a white arch.

  “. . . Or not.” She laughed. “I am certain actual poison could not produce the expression on your face right now. I almost want to call Lucille in.”

  “I am certain actual poison would be far less difficult and far less dangerous—at least to me. I would,” he added, in a slightly more plaintive tone, “rather hear about demons. Duvari is one element of the entire Merchant fracas that I have managed to be adroit enough to avoid.”

  She rose, restless, and began to walk the edge of the carpet that fronted the two desks.

  He tsked behind her back. He considered pacing to be an almost political failing; it showed worry or impatience, either of which could be a besetting sin. Since Jarven was often whiny and petulant when impatient, Finch thought this unfair—but Jarven correctly pointed out that his foibles were disguises. Hers were not.

  “How important do you consider Duvari to be?” she asked.

  Silence.

  “Jarven?” She turned and almost missed a step.

  “I have, as you often point out, taught you. I have, in my opinion, taught you well. Not even the most foolhardy and aggressive of my early protégées could have asked me that question with a remotely straight face. And yet, here you are. I believe I am almost disappointed—but I am certain there are extenuating circumstances which you will, in all haste, explain.”

  She folded her arms, but stopped pacing. “It was, in its entirety, a serious question. You can complain about Duvari for hours—I’ve heard you do it, admittedly in front of the right audience. I have seldom heard you speak of Duvari in terms that are not derogatory. I have,” she added, “seldom heard anyone of note speak of him in a remotely complimentary fashion. I do not interact with Duvari often.”

  “You do not,” he replied, “interact with Duvari at all.”

  “We are not going to have that option.”

  He exhaled. “Sit. Watching you pace is making me dizzy.”

  Finch sat. She tried not to fidget with the skirts of the dress she so disliked.

  “I have taught you to play games; many of those lessons were indirect; I forced you to observe, and I have allowed you to draw your own conclusions from those observations. Where necessary—in my opinion—I have encouraged you to think more deeply; to see the advantage to be gained in any situation, even the most dire. You have, of course, no such experience with Duvari.

  “I tell you again, Finch, you will not interact with the Lord of the Compact.”

  “And who will, in The Terafin’s absence? You? Teller is set to call a House Council meeting in five days—or perhaps three, if the situation becomes too complicated. At that time, we will introduce you as a provisional Council member; we expect complaints, and some measures to stifle them have already been put in place.

  “But even so, Duvari accepts the hierarchy of the House; he will, in the absence of The Terafin, defer—if he even understands the word—to the right-kin.”

  “To your Teller.”

  “Yes.”

  “And why should this be a problem?”

  “Demons. I meant to tell you,” she added, which was half true. “But I thought we might wait on Hectore; he is to visit this afternoon.”

  “He will be late.”

  She frowned.

  “As, I’m afraid, will I. The Merchants’ Guild is under investigation by the Magisterium and the Mysterium, and we are to speak with the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”

  “Was the head of the Merchants’ Guild ever found?”

  “Given the urgency of the request, I believe the answer is yes. My own concerns are, unfortunately, more mundane. More than a dozen of the guild’s guards—in guild tabard, no less—were working in concert with the creature that almost destroyed the membership.”

  “And they would need to be paid.”

  “And fed, and clothed, and housed, yes. Were it not for the Order of Knowledge, we might have had one or two of these men in custody, where we might question them at our leisure. As they were careless—”

  “They were somewhat occupied with a demon.”

  “As was I,” he countered. “And I would not have made that error.”

  “You never believe you can die.”

  “On the contrary, Finch, I believe I can die at any time. I have not recovered from steps taken to insure that I survived in the halls behind the guild’s lamentable kitchen. While it is true I emphasize my age to my advantage, it is not all pretense.” He winced.

  “That, on the other hand, you did not purpose.”

  “Yes. It is useful to blend truth with our fictions; it makes the whole much more convincing. And you are, of course, attempting to change the subject.”

  “I am thinking the subject through. Were these guards hired by the guildmaster?”

  He smiled. “That would be my current supposition.”

  “Was the guildmaster not himself?”

  “That would also be my supposition; confirmation will have to wait upon Sigurne Mellifas—as difficult and shrewd an old woman as any I have ever met. She shows an alarming interest in The Terafin.”

  “Who is not, as you’ve pointed out, present. I am unwilling to let Teller navigate Duvari on his own.”

  “I think that wise. No, do not start pacing again. I happen to be fond of that carpet; it deserves better. Sit.”

&
nbsp; Finch inhaled. “Did you have much personal experience with Alowan?”

  “The former healer? I did.”

  “His assassination was tactical.”

  “Of course. You are concerned for your Daine? Finch, please make a fighting attempt at self-control. I will begin to feel guilty if you do not.”

  “I would almost like to see that. Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “There is much that I suspect; suspicion outweighs evidentiary proof. I am, however, content with suspicion, where it is reasonable and where it fits available fact. Daine is an open secret, among senior members of the House; he is certainly an open secret among the Household Staff.

  “I fail to see how this relates to Duvari.”

  Probably, Finch thought uncharitably, deliberately. “No, you don’t.”

  He watched her; she met—and held—his steady gaze. “You are making more work for me.”

  “You’re aware that a random servant was attacked; you’re aware that the results were messy and completely obvious. Whoever attacked the girl thought her dead—and they wanted the entire House to know it. They wanted news of their butchery to travel—and Jarven, it has. The entire Household Staff is on edge—and they should be. It was a savage, brutal attack. The girl should not have survived. She was possibly lucky: she was discovered by someone who kept enough of her wits about her that she sent—immediately—for Daine.

  “Daine was able—at cost—to save her life.”

  She expected some petulant complaint; Jarven offered none. He watched her, fingers beneath his chin, his expression remote.

  “The girl was not a random target.”

  “Ah.”

  “She was a member of Duvari’s Astari.” When Jarven failed to comment, she continued. “We are relatively certain she was chosen because of that affiliation. What we cannot ascertain is how that information was gained. Some preliminary investigation has been done.”

  “Results?”

  “Not promising.”

  “Terafin was not the only House to suffer such an attack, then.”