He did not, however, resume his position. He stood behind the chair Hectore occupied as if he were his shadow.
Hectore did not open the case immediately. Instead, he met Sigurne’s benign gaze. “This was unnecessary.”
“That,” she inclined her head, “is the opinion I offered the Kings when asked. The scroll was both enchanted and sealed by me, if you wonder at Matteos’ expression. The Kings however may ask advice—or demand it—without any obligation to heed it.”
“Hectore,” Andrei said, which surprised everyone in the room. His voice was gentle. “Open the case.”
Hectore said—and did—nothing.
“I am not afraid of what it contains.”
“I think,” Hectore replied, “you have far less to lose.” He rose, case in hand. “Are you instructed to wait for a reply?” His voice was deceptively soft.
Matteos Corvel bridled anyway. Sigurne’s hand—which had not, Hectore noted, left his arm—tightened. “I was not sent purely as a messenger; the palace retains men and women whose work that is. It is assumed, however, that you will cooperate with the Kings’ request, and I am here to facilitate that cooperation. If, however, you choose not to do so, I am not empowered to act as the Kings’ agent. I would consider it a great favor if you did not force that role on me.”
“You are very, very good,” Hectore told her, feeling both admiration and a tinge of uneasiness. “Had you desired money or power, it would have been yours. It is not,” he added, to Matteos Corvel, “an insult.”
“The guildmaster is due a measure of respect,” was the tight, but heated, response.
“I have, I trust, given her that.” He considered the consequences of returning the case unopened. They would be high, but not impossible to weather. But he considered, as well, the attack on the Merchants’ guildhall. Dozens of men and women—old rivals, new rivals, and friends—were dead in the wake of an attack that was inconceivable, except perhaps in the darkest of nightmare. The governance of the guild itself had been left to Jarven ATerafin—and that leadership had taken up the majority of Hectore’s time and thought.
He could handle Jarven; he had in the past. But the demons were a battlefield beyond him. They had changed, in one action, the nature of Hectore’s reality. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he told Sigurne.
“No. I don’t. But I have my suspicions. Thus, my advice to the Kings.” She rose as well; Hectore felt a twinge of genuine guilt—but it was not enough to drive him to sit. He wanted to pace. He wanted to throw the case across the room at the nearest wall or fireplace; it was an act of petulant defiance, and it would not harm the message itself. In this room, in front of his guests, he could do neither.
“Hectore,” Andrei said again. Into the silence that followed his spoken name, Andrei added, “you have not failed me. You have never failed me. But you have seen yourself that change is coming.”
“I see no opportunities in this change.”
“And that is unlike you. Come. Even Jarven is excited.”
“Did I not have a rule about mentioning his name in my house?”
“Several, that I recall.”
Hectore glared at his servant in much the way he might have had they been alone. He took each end of the scroll case in hand, and twisted. The seal cracked. No sign of magic followed. He removed the top of the case, handing it Andrei, who accepted it without comment.
The official document was wider than the length of the case, and thicker in diameter, the seals affixed to the bottom of the document adding weight in all senses of that word. Hectore read its contents.
The events of the past month have left a lasting shadow across the city. The loss of the merchant heads of many families have contributed to a shortage of necessary supplies, and people fear a return of the Henden of 410. In the current tense atmosphere, it is of utmost necessity that daily business be conducted in as smooth and reliable a fashion as possible.
Were such daily business to be our chief concern, your part in these discussions would be unnecessary; you have always been exemplary in such circumstances. The events of the 7th are not events that exist in isolation. Changes are occurring across the breadth of the Empire. Changes are occurring within Averalaan as we write. If not handled with care, the consequences will be far more disastrous and far-reaching than even the worst of the events this city has historically faced.
The Mysterium and the Order of Knowledge have long been tasked with the protection of the Empire. But in their considered opinion, the power and knowledge they currently possess is not equal to the task of continuing to do so in the near future. Our parents concur.
We are aware that during the incident at the Merchants’ guildhall, on the 7th day of Morel, in the year 428 A.A., you were instrumental in preserving the lives of those who work in the back halls. Word has reached us of the presence of an individual who was capable of meeting the demons in combat. The Lords of Wisdom and Justice have tasked us with the finding of this individual. They feel this individual could be just as instrumental in the survival of the Empire.
This was not as bad as Hectore had feared. He glanced up, quickly, at Sigurne; she was watching.
There is some belief that you have some information about the individual in question. The gods were not able to give a detailed description. They were, however, provided information about witnesses. We do not consider the individual a threat, and have no wish to harm or incarcerate him.
Hectore snorted.
But it is imperative that he be found. To this end, Sigurne Mellifas has undertaken a difficult conversation. At her request, we have left the particulars of that conversation in her hands; there are very few people, in the upcoming conflict, who can be trusted to handle such conversations with the appropriate caution. She is one. She will attempt to make clear the concerns of the Crowns, and the reasons for this search.
The information is to be considered a matter of security; its spread, an act of treason. We welcome your input and your cooperation in these very difficult times.
Hectore set the gently worded edict aside. “You did not speak frankly to the Kings,” he said quietly, his eyes upon the guildmaster.
Matteos, already annoyed, looked even less pleased.
Sigurne said, “I spoke frankly, Patris Araven. But I am not a god. I cannot speak with the certainty that the gods possess. I made clear only that I thought of the two witnesses, you were capable of giving us the information we required. I was not privy to the contents of the Kings’ letter. I was, however, asked to come to speak with you on matters that are not directly concerned with the investigation itself.
“Will you listen?”
“At the Kings’ command,” Hectore replied. He returned to his seat. By silent assent, Andrei returned to his post by the back wall. He was going to be insufferable, Hectore thought, because he had been right.
“Tell me,” Sigurne said, lifting the glass of as yet untouched water on the table, “what you know about the Sleepers.”
• • •
Two hours later, Hectore escorted the elderly guildmaster out of the Araven manse. He offered her his arm and she accepted it; she seemed tired and careworn. Matteos had thawed slightly in the intervening time, and allowed Hectore the privilege of that escort. Andrei tidied the guest room; he was waiting for Hectore’s return.
The news that Sigurne imparted troubled Hectore; he had no reason to hide it. Sigurne did not feel that the combined power of the magi—all circles—would be up to the task of defending the city from the disaster she was certain was approaching. She acknowledged, at Hectore’s behest, that there were members of her magi that were fully capable of fighting all but the most powerful of the demons; she considered these mythical Sleepers more dangerous, by far, than even the demon that had appeared without warning at the heart of the victory parade some months past.
She considered the demons that had appeared in the Merchants’ guildhall to be a much lesser threat. And at the hands of a much lesser threat, so many had perished.
“She is not wrong,” Andrei said, as Hectore opened, and closed, the door.
“They were powerful enough.”
“Armies are not composed of demons, but an army of mortals, with no significant individual power, is just as terrifying if you have no like army prepared to meet it.” He offered Hectore wine—a pale, white wine that was sweet and cool. “What will you do?”
“Do you believe in the Sleepers?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe they will wake?”
Andrei closed his eyes. “Yes, Hectore.”
Hectore paced in tighter and tighter circles. “Get dressed,” he told his erstwhile recovering servant.
Andrei raised a brow.
“We are heading to the Merchant Authority.”
“You do not intend to speak with Jarven. The Kings have said this is a confidential matter of security—”
“Jarven, I am almost certain, already knows. I do not intend to speak to him about the matter in any direct fashion. But he knows.” And he, Hectore thought dispassionately, could do what Hectore himself could not: he could question Andrei, if it proved necessary.
• • •
The Merchant Authority was not empty. If the events at the Merchants’ guildhall had cast a shadow over the city, it was a shadow in which people still moved. The wheels of commerce might wobble, but they very seldom ground to a complete halt. People had to eat, among other things.
“Andrei.” Hectore did not even attempt to keep irritation out of his voice.
“Yes?” Andrei was on high alert. He was always perceptive; he had always been observant. But in certain situations he reminded Hectore of Duvari. It was a reminder that was distasteful enough; Hectore resented it.
“At the moment, there is no building in the entirety of the hundred holdings that is more secure.”
Andrei, predictably, failed to respond.
“I am going to send you home to continue to convalesce if you do not relax.” Hectore briefly considered sending him home regardless. If Andrei could relax—for a definition of the word that had, no doubt, been at home during the time of the Blood Barons, if then—within the Merchant Authority, he would not relax in the Terafin offices. He had never liked Jarven.
He had never understood why Hectore did. And that was fair; on the surface of things, there was very little to actually like about a man who had, on a whim, attempted to ruin him. Perhaps, had Jarven succeeded, Hectore would feel as Andrei did. Or perhaps not. They had both been younger men, and they had both played games of ambition with everything they had.
Hectore made his way up to the Terafin offices, noting, as he did, that the crowded building was thick with guards in various tabards—and of varying competence, in his opinion.
He was surprised, however, to see the Terafin doors adorned not by House Guards, which could be expected, but by the Terafin Chosen. There were two.
“It appears that I am not the only person who feels caution is required,” Andrei noted. He said this before the doors opened; guards were, like servants, invisible.
Hectore frowned—at the Chosen. “Do not be tiresome. I have to speak with Jarven; I think that’s burden enough for one day.” The doors opened to the sight of Lucille ATerafin, which brightened Hectore’s otherwise stressful day. She did not smile when their eyes met; the habitual frown of the Merchant Authority’s most well-known dragon appeared instead.
She reached for a wide, squat book. “Patris Araven.”
“Lucille,” he replied. “ATerafin.”
Her brows folded in the middle.
“I am certain it has been a trying week.” Before she could speak, he added, “I offered to take the governance of the guild; Jarven rejected my suggestion out of hand.”
“You didn’t argue forcefully enough,” she replied.
“That is slightly unfair. You have known Jarven for at least as long as I, and you know what he is like when he has decided on a particular course of action.”
“I know what you are like when you’ve likewise decided.”
Hectore chuckled. “I admit I offered out of a sense of responsibility. Herding the terrified is not something I relish.”
“You don’t appear to have an appointment today.”
“I could offer the polite fiction that I have confused the days, but I won’t. If Jarven is not involved with guild affairs, and if he has a moment, I would like to speak with him. If he is or does not, I will stand in line and make an appointment.”
Lucille exhaled. “You have a standing appointment with Finch,” she said, in a much lower voice. She could be quiet; it was not an ability that saw much cultivation at the front desk of an office such as this.
“I would prefer to speak with Jarven on his own, if that is at all possible. I am very fond of Finch; I do not desire to see her trapped between two old, bitter men.”
An answering laugh could be heard—barely—from behind the closed doors of the most important office in the Terafin suite. Lucille could obviously hear it as well. She rose. “I believe that Jarven is free.”
• • •
When Lucille opened the door, Hectore saw—to his surprise—that the office was otherwise occupied. Finch rose as she caught sight of him. Jarven, of course, did not. But either of these two could be expected to be found in this room; a third person was present. From the looks of her clothing she was not a merchant; from the looks of her visible scars, she might once have been a caravan guard.
Or a soldier.
She was the first to rise, the first to offer a bow that was, in form, completely servile—and in execution, curiously distant. Jarven’s smile was expansive. “I am surprised and delighted to have your company at this particular moment,” he said. His delight was genuine; it put Hectore instantly on his guard.
But it also evoked a smile that was, in some small way, nostalgic. Jarven noticed it immediately, of course. His eyes were that too-bright hue peculiar to Jarven when he was spinning his many, many webs. He could see the lay of the political and economic landscape with a clarity and a ruthlessness that most men simply did not possess. He had always had an enormous sense of his own worth, but he had, simultaneously, a lack of the ego that required others to believe it.
Hectore took a chair. Andrei took up his familiar position at Hectore’s back, against the wall nearest the doors. Finch did not sit; she headed out.
“Let Andrei get the tea,” Hectore told her. “In your position, Finch, you cannot afford to be seen fetching and carrying.”
Her smile was as genuine as Jarven’s. “It is the only chance I have to escape the confines of this office without guilt.” She glanced at Andrei, and brief uncertainty marred her otherwise pleasant expression. “If that will not step on your toes?”
Jarven exhaled loudly. In case this was missed—and how it could be, Hectore didn’t know—he also lifted his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“What have I done wrong this time?”
“You do not address a man’s servant, Finch. You know this.”
Finch’s smile was just as bright as Jarven’s. And, Hectore thought, marveling, just as hard. “I address mine all the time,” was her cheerful, deliberate response. “And only two of them despise me for it.”
“You see?” Jarven said to Hectore. “This is what I have been enduring since I was foolish enough to cede office space to young Finch.” He made a shooing motion with his hands.
Hectore, however, inclined his chin, and Andrei exited the open doors in Finch’s wake. “It is no small wonder to me that she has not attempted to assassinate you.”
“Finch is rather direct. Were she angry enough to desire my death, she would want to p
ersonally cause it. Assassins are not her style. And my manners are deplorable.”
“Unusually self-aware today, aren’t you?”
Jarven settled back into his chair, folding his hands across his chest; he looked as if he intended to take a nap—a nap, his posture implied, that was long overdue and well-deserved. He did not, however, close his eyes. Instead, he said, “May I present Birgide Viranyi? She is a member of the Terafin Household Staff, under the wing of the Master Gardener. She requested an appointment, and I admit I was curious enough that I granted it. Birgide, I have the pleasure of introducing Hectore of Araven.”
Birgide bowed again. “Even I recognize the patris,” she told Jarven quietly. “Much is said about him in the back halls.”
“Of Terafin? I admit some surprise,” Hectore replied. He, of course, had never heard of Birgide Viranyi.
“Terafin is not the first House I’ve served in this capacity.” Her smile was slender; it appeared genuine.
“Birgide came to ask a few questions,” Jarven continued. “Coincidentally enough, the second person on her very short list was you.”
“Short list?”
“She wished to speak to either—or both—of us. I am being magnanimous; she will not have to waste time either repeating her questions or appealing to your own overworked staff in order to grab a minute of your time.”
“Please,” Hectore said, gesturing. “Sit. If Jarven is rude enough not to remember that you are a guest in his office, I am not—I will begin to feel exceedingly self-conscious about sitting, myself.”
The Terafin gardener took a seat. She was silent for one long moment. When she spoke, Hectore wished she had remained that way.
“Patris Araven—”
“Hectore, please.”
“Good luck with that,” Jarven added. “I believe the only reason she uses my name is the confusion it would cause should she choose formality. The office is otherwise littered with ATerafin.”
Hectore was, of course, curious. Household Staff of any stripe did not enter this office; they certainly didn’t enter it the way Hectore or any of the more powerful merchants likely to be found in front of Jarven’s desk would. Yet she was here, and Jarven was not bored. He had questions of his own for Jarven, and he did not intend to ask them in front of an unknown gardener. “I am comfortable being addressed formally, if that is more to your liking.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 71
