Oracle: The House War: Book Six

by Michelle West

  Birgide, however, had become strange. In the past few days, he’d noted a shift in her personality. This took no effort; he was certain even those who paid passing attention would note the difference. She was not exactly open; she was neither welcoming nor friendly. But there was a difference in the wall of her face; a window had been constructed.

  Or an arrow slit.

  “Why do you need to meet with Jarven?” he asked, looking at the surface of his drink—which was receding rapidly.

  “You don’t trust him.” Birgide’s reply was about as informative as Haval’s generally were.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Clearly you’ve never met the man.” And thinking of Haval, Jester rose. “What happened in Avantari?”

  Birgide smiled. “I planted Ellariannatte in the Courtyard gardens, and they grew.”

  “Tell me they didn’t grow the way the trees in our gardens did.”

  “I have no idea how the trees in your garden were planted; I cannot say that with any certainty. They grew, however, as fast.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I can drink, but dislike the taste of alcohol.”

  “Must have made you great fun at parties.”

  “It wasn’t a job requirement.”

  Thinking of Duvari, Jester grimaced. “Given your boss, I’m not surprised. He probably chooses for lack of great fun. Or any fun.”

  “Fun is not one of his criteria, no. On the other hand, he doesn’t require the obliteration of either charm or sense of humor. Where are you going?”

  “It’s a conversation I’m going to have to repeat, and I don’t have your training. I’ll botch something.”

  “Repeat?” Her expression cooled, but Jester couldn’t pinpoint the changes that gave him that impression.

  “Yes. To Haval. If you feel you will be constrained by his presence, he is a simple tailor.”

  She lifted a brow. “What position does he hold within Terafin?”

  “He’s a tailor. You may have heard of him—but then again, maybe not. Being a tailor isn’t a front, as far as I can tell. And frankly, I can’t. But he’s known Jay for half her life. She trusts him.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t trust anyone. I distrust Jarven.” He exhaled as he reached the great room’s closed door. “But you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would support Jay in the same way.”

  “And me?”

  “I trust you more now than I did two days ago.”

  “I have not been dismissed from service.”

  “You couldn’t have been.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re demonstrably not dead.”

  She did smile, then. “I am willing to speak in the presence of Haval.”

  “You know something about him I don’t?”

  “I know that he was allowed to find me in the forest.”

  • • •

  Haval was sewing when Jester interrupted him. He looked up. “Well?”

  “She wants to talk to Jarven.” This pronouncement had no notable effect on the tailor’s demeanor.

  “Why?”

  “She hasn’t said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That I didn’t trust him.”

  “Ah.” Although the room was a sea of tailoring chaos, Haval himself was fastidious in the care with which he set aside his work. He was aproned, and did not choose to divest himself of that. “She is in the great room?”

  Jester nodded.

  “You are not, of course, telling me everything you know.”

  “I’m not in the mood for tests today.”

  “Or ever?”

  “Or, generally, ever, yes. You’re nothing but a constant test—a battery of tests. If you feel the need to test someone, you can work on her.”

  “You expect me to work with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Jester exhaled. “Because she’s the chosen guardian of the forest.”

  “Chosen?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Of course it is.” Haval waited, his posture perfect and almost without character.

  Jester hadn’t lied; he was not in the mood for tests. “I’m to lunch with Marrick today, if you recall.”

  The clothier condescended to nod.

  “At your suggestion.”

  “It was not a suggestion. Birgide?”

  Jester exhaled. He then told Haval what had occurred in the Terafin forest. Haval listened without comment—and without expression. Only when he was certain Jester was done did he nod.

  “Very well. I will speak with Birgide.” The hint of a smile shifted the corners of his mouth. “I imagine Duvari will be ill-pleased.”

  “At her?”

  “That requires no imagination whatsoever. I thought you disliked the Lord of the Compact.”

  “Anyone sane does.”

  “Ah. A pity; you are certain to be seeing far more of him in the near future.”

  • • •

  They found Birgide by the fireplace; she appeared to be inspecting the mantel. Nor did she leave off that inspection when the door both opened—and closed—as they entered. Jester immediately walked to the cabinet which housed alcohol meant to entertain guests. As he opened the door, he thought of Ellerson; as he closed it, his thoughts strayed to Carver.

  He didn’t want them to stay there; he picked up the two drinks, glanced once at a tray, and shrugged. Neither Haval nor Birgide were guests, and Birgide wasn’t drinking anyway.

  “You delivered my message,” Haval said. He took an armchair as the question—which was not actually a question—drew Birgide’s attention away from her inspection.

  She nodded. “There is surprisingly little information about you in the palace archives.”

  “You checked.”

  “I made that attempt. I did not have time to be more thorough, and I may be denied access to the full archives in future.”

  “A fair precaution.”

  She took the chair across from Haval. Her posture implied business.

  “You have stated a wish to meet with Jarven ATerafin.”

  Birgide nodded. “Wish is perhaps the wrong word. I believe what I said was that I need to speak with him.”

  “Curious. Why?”

  She met, and held Haval’s gaze. The intensity of the scrutiny on either side bored Jester to tears. “I seek information.”

  Jester almost choked. “You’ll get, at best, half of what you want—and probably the useless half.”

  Haval glanced in his direction. “While overly dramatic, Jester is essentially correct. You will not obtain useful information from Jarven unless you have information to trade—and even then, there is no guarantee. The information must have some amusement value, or some relevance to his interests. I assume you have no obvious merchant connections through which you might push.”

  Birgide nodded.

  “You cannot use Duvari as a conduit or a threat; Jarven is perhaps one of a handful of men in the Empire who does not consider the Lord of the Compact—or his many Astari—a danger. On the wrong day, he finds Duvari an irritant; on the right day, he finds him an amusement. He will give Duvari nothing, or less than nothing.”

  Birgide exhaled. “That is unfortunate. Jarven, however, is one of two men who might lead me to the information I seek. I assumed, as Jarven is ATerafin, that he would be easier to approach.”

  Jester coughed again.

  Haval frowned. “And the other?”

  “Hectore of Araven.”

  “Hectore of Araven is generally the more approachable of the two. He does not condescend to fake extreme age or its inevitable effects.”

  “Will he se
e me?”

  “I am not his personal secretary; I cannot, of course, say. If, however, he agrees to any meeting, this will pique Jarven’s curiosity, and he may allow a meeting to satisfy it. Why these two men?”

  Birgide glanced at Jester. Jester almost missed it.

  But the question in that glance surprised him enough that he considered it with care. He didn’t particularly care for Haval, but considered him almost trustworthy; he understood that there was some history between the tailor and Jarven ATerafin that was almost certain to remain hidden. He knew that Haval’s former profession did not involve selling expensive dresses to the moneyed—but everyone had a past.

  “Inasmuch as any man in Terafin—outside of the den and the Chosen—can be trusted, it’s Haval. He’s a bit like Duvari, but Haval, at least, is rumored to have a sense of humor. He will do nothing to harm The Terafin or her chosen causes; he will, at best, absent himself from those he disagrees with. If you’re concerned for The Terafin’s security, don’t be.

  “If you’re worried about Duvari, on the other hand, I’ve got nothing.”

  Birgide surprised both men present; she closed her eyes. It was a full minute before she opened them again. “I spoke with Cormaris.”

  Haval’s left brow rose.

  “Cormaris spoke of the Sleepers and their heralds.”

  Jester rose, picked up his empty glass, and headed to the cabinet for a refill. Back to the room’s other occupants, he said, “Will they wake any time soon?”

  “According to the god, yes. You don’t seem surprised.”

  Jester shrugged. “Did he happen to give any hints how we might stop them?”

  “You aren’t surprised.”

  He drank. “I’d like to be, if that counts.”

  “Do you have any idea where they are?”

  Jester didn’t answer. Birgide accepted his silence.

  “The god spoke of heralds.”

  “Makes sense. The Sleepers were—when awake at the dawn of time—four Princes of the Hidden Court. Having heralds wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Did the god say the heralds would be responsible for waking them?”

  “Not in so many words. He seemed to feel we could delay their waking by confusing or misdirecting the heralds.”

  “Did the god say who these heralds are?”

  “No. If they’re coming now, my best guess is that they are not mortal. But I believe Cormaris feels it’s only a matter of time—and no, before you ask, I didn’t ask how much time. I’m not sure gods experience time the way the rest of us do.

  “He cautioned me—us—against trusting or relying on Meralonne APhaniel.”

  Jester poured, emptied his glass, and poured again. “Did he say why?”

  “I didn’t understand the full import of his answer, no. He seemed to expect that the mage would somehow change. Meralonne has always been chaotic.”

  “I don’t suppose Duvari has actually discussed this with the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”

  “Not in my presence.” Birgide’s smile was slight. “If I am not actually present, Duvari does not consider the knowledge to be of relevance to my duties—and no one asks Duvari for information, regardless. If the guildmaster feels that Meralonne will remain reliable, which Cormaris considered a remote possibility, he said that Meralonne could not stand forever against the three. But he also said that there was one other in the city who might be of aid in preserving Averalaan should the Sleepers wake.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “He did not refer to The Terafin. He referred to someone—something—he called namann, and he said that this creature was seen, briefly, in the company of Jarven ATerafin and Hectore of Araven. Cormaris told me to seek namann.” She hesitated; this was more measured. “I intended to approach the two god-born sons of Teos who reside in the halls of the Order of Knowledge—but they are west of the city itself, seeking information for their parent. I have asked contacts at the Order about namann, but,” and here she frowned, “was told that if this was an emergency, the scholar of choice in such matters would be Member APhaniel.”

  “And Jarven and Meralonne are both, in theory, in residence in the manse.”

  Birgide nodded.

  Haval had let Jester do the talking; Jester resented it. He turned to the tailor and said, succinctly, “Your call.”

  “I am not a member of the House Council.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Haval lifted both brows in open criticism. He then turned to Birgide. “I will ask you to discuss this with Finch before you make your choice. She has served as Jarven’s aide for a number of years; she knows him well enough to gauge the risk you take. She has also built some connection with Hectore of Araven.”

  “Your advice?”

  Haval looked surprised. Jester thought the surprise might even be genuine, although with the old man, it was impossible to be certain.

  Birgide, however, accepted the expression at face value. “My position at the moment is difficult. I serve the Astari, but I will, in future, serve it as a member of House Terafin. And I will do nothing—not now, and not ever—to endanger the forest at the heart of The Terafin’s hidden lands. But I lack expertise in patrician games.”

  “I cannot believe that,” Haval replied.

  “Your belief is not relevant. I am, of course, aware of those who hold power, and those who exercise it. I have not been trained to interact in any way with the powerful and the patrician. I do not have the ear of the Kings or the Queens. I do not rub shoulders with the powerful among the guildmasters. I am aware of the internal workings of the Order of Knowledge because I am one of its many non-talent-born members.

  “Jarven ATerafin is a notable power. I know some of his history and some of his activities, both before he was offered the Terafin name, and after. I know that Duvari dislikes him—but the dislike is superficial; he does not consider Jarven a threat. Or rather, he does not consider him as much of a threat as he does The Terafin herself.

  “I know very little about Meralonne APhaniel—but what I do know is disturbing.”

  “And that?”

  “He has been a member of the Order for a very, very long time. He was a member in good standing—and a First Circle mage—when Sigurne was brought from the Northern Wastes. His power is, and has always been, considerable. He was not, however, considered a credible threat. And I find that extremely unusual.”

  Haval said, “It is.”

  “What do you know about Meralonne, then?”

  “Less, I am certain, than the Lord of the Compact.”

  “And more,” Jester cut in, “than either of us.”

  Haval surprised Jester; he shrugged. It was an economical movement given how little he’d moved for most of the conversation, but it clearly meant of course. “He is not, in my opinion, mortal. He is classified as a First Circle mage; he is, again in my opinion, far beyond that. His power appears to have limits. But—again, opinion—I believe those limits have greatly lessened with the passage of a few years.”

  Birgide’s attention was now riveted upon the tailor. Jester’s was, on the other hand, squarely on his almost empty glass.

  “My research, of late, is limited,” Haval continued. “I am certain that the informal House Council—which you know as The Terafin’s den—has more information than they have chosen to share. Speak with Finch.”

  This time, Birgide nodded. “You don’t trust Jarven.”

  “A fool—and only a fool—trusts Jarven,” Haval replied. “I am vain enough not to classify myself as a fool, although present circumstance appears to stretch that vanity almost to breaking.”

  “And Duvari?”

  “I trust Duvari.” His smile was slender. It seemed unguarded, which instantly put Jester off his drink. “Understand, however, that the use of the word ‘trust’ is entirely contextu
al. Duvari is consistent. He is intelligent. Given a map of the various conflicts we face, positioning Duvari upon that map will yield specific results.”

  “You think him predictable.”

  “Ah, no. I think his motivation is predictable. His flexibility and intelligence create a large margin of error when it comes to determining his next move.”

  “And Jarven?”

  “He is, and has always been, a feckless, dangerous gadfly. His raw intelligence is, in my opinion, easily the equal of Duvari’s—or mine. But his compass is simple amusement or boredom, and it is impossible to clearly predict what he will find amusing. He is just as likely to spill an important secret to watch the panic it causes as he is to hold it to his chest. He forms attachments that are loose and easily discarded. In some cases, he appears to work against his own interests. He does not. His interests, however, are not the predictable, patrician interests.

  “He is not a fool. He might as well be. Fools are frequently dangerous because they cannot be predicted; they cannot be trusted to act in their own interests because they cannot be trusted to see them. It is best, with Jarven, to keep him off-balance. When he is occupied, he has less time to indulge in his brand of chaos.”

  “And is he off-balance now?”

  “Sadly, no. He has taken over the governance of the Merchants’ Guild—and that type of bureaucracy breeds boredom and frustration.”

  Birgide glanced at Jester. Jester shrugged. “I’ve never liked him,” he offered. “But Finch always has. I think it unlikely that he would deliberately harm Finch. I don’t think he gives a rat’s ass for The Terafin.” Jester emptied his glass. “He hates to lose. I don’t think he ever truly considers that he has. At the moment, he’s aware of the demons and their intent, and he considers them interesting enough he’s unlikely to cause havoc in our camp.”

  “I will speak with Finch.” Birgide rose. “And I will speak with Meralonne APhaniel.”

  “He’s in The Terafin’s personal quarters.”

  “Yes,” Birgide replied. “I know.”

  • • •

  “What,” Haval asked quietly, when Birgide left the West Wing, “has happened to her?”