Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  She folded her hands in her lap. “What would you do with the information?”

  “What does a rich man do with his rings and his gold and his many, many houses?”

  “Wear them and live in them, I imagine.”

  “You do not. You have worked with me for far, far too long—and I have not fired you or had you sent from my office, more’s the pity.”

  “Jarven.”

  “Yes, that was harsh. But you really have become quite cautious, and at the moment, I feel it is to my detriment. You have affection for me; that much is obvious. But you are not exactly on my side.” He set the glass down. “It really is a pity that you are so devoted to your Jewel. I feel that in you, there exists the steel to manipulate and maintain the House Seat.”

  “I know you mean that as a compliment,” she said softly, “but it’s really not—”

  “Nonsense. If you mean to tell me that you are too shy, too retiring, too tongue-tied, I shall accept it for what it is worth, and remind you that Sigurne Mellifas is old, frail, and sentimental. But she has held the Order of Knowledge for decades, and those who attempted to oust her by violence are no longer among its many rolls. I will not argue with you about this; I know what I see. Even if you were certain you could do so, you would not rise to make the attempt.”

  “No more did you.”

  He smiled quite fondly, folding his hands across his chest and leaning back. “No.”

  “Jarven, what will you do with the information?”

  “How can I say? I am unclear as to what the information is. But you have not disapproved of what I did in the web of my office to date.”

  “I disapproved of some of it, when I had the knowledge to understand it,” was her severe reply.

  “Very well. It did not cause a war; nor did it cause a permanent loss of status, although I will grant the temporary loss was severe.” Neither loss, nor status, of course, had been his.

  She exhaled, hands still in her lap, her shoulders turned toward the floor; she looked much smaller in the confines of the large chair. “Would you give up the Merchant Authority in exchange for the House Council seat?”

  He did not even attempt to look outraged or apologetic. The harsh, hard gleam of his eyes didn’t falter. “Is that your opening position?”

  “My opening position is No.”

  He did not point out that it was not a position she had the authority to take; that would have been an insult. To her surprise, he didn’t even make the attempt. Jarven knew how to wheedle. He knew how to get around her. He knew, sitting there, eyes hard and bright, that she never truly wanted to deny him anything.

  But he knew that she could, or would, if she felt it necessary.

  “I am willing to consider a senior aide in the Authority office.”

  “Would that aide report to you, or to Jay?”

  “To me.”

  She folded her arms.

  “And to The Terafin, of course.”

  “To Lucille and The Terafin. You know how Lucille feels about your reputation in the office, and you already use it shamelessly.”

  “In return for this concession—”

  “It is only barely a concession, Jarven.”

  “In return,” he repeated, “I am to be given a seat upon the House Council, and my authority is to be commensurate with my experience in the Authority.”

  Her brows rose. “There is no seat on Council that is commensurate with that, and you know it. If you cannot separate yourself—genuinely—from some of the power you now hold in the Merchant Authority, you will already wield more power than any other Council member; it’s likely you’ll wield more actual power than The Terafin herself.

  “I trust you. I know I shouldn’t; it’s a weakness. But even I would hesitate to give you that much control.”

  “If I am not given the Council seat,” he replied, in an easy, friendly voice, “you will come to understand just how much damage the Merchant Authority offices can do to the House.”

  She stared at him for a long, silent moment.

  “Ah, yes. That is a threat, Finch, and I am sorry to have to make it so baldly—but you are not the dance partner I expected to have in this discussion, and only the bald will reach you.” He frowned. “You may tell Haval that I owe him.”

  “Please do not threaten Haval,” Finch replied.

  “You are not concerned about my threat to the House? To your young Terafin?”

  “I am. I know you mean it.” But even knowing it, she couldn’t find her righteous wrath. It wouldn’t have done any good. “You can do the damage, Jarven; she can, in turn, replace you. It will be costly—I can imagine how costly you would make it, and I really don’t want to continue in that vein. But that war will not give you what you want, and if you begin it—even a small overture, as a warning—she will die before she gives you the seat you desire.

  “And if she dies, you will never have what you want.”

  * * *

  “Finch, I dislike your expression. I may be forced to remind you that we will still be working together in the Authority offices, and that I am your superior.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You intend to discuss this with Lucille.”

  “I’m not certain.”

  He frowned. As he did, he straightened both spine and shoulders, sitting more formally in the chair he’d dragged across the room. “Is this not the point at which such threats are now affectionately offered?”

  She liked, and had always liked, Jarven; that was the truth. Even his threat hadn’t changed it; it was immutable, as much a part of her life in House Terafin as—as Jay was. But she had loved Duster, in her time, and Duster had indisputably been the most cruel member of the den. She smiled at Jarven, thinking how like—and how unlike—these two were. “It is, Jarven—but these are real. You know I adore you, you’ve always known it.”

  He did not smile; he watched her then, as if she were the emerging first draft of a difficult and much contested territorial rights contract.

  “But I also love Lucille. I always have. She’s been like a mother, to me.”

  “She is like a mother,” he said, with a sniff, “to almost anyone who is not immediately odious, and who will stand still. At least if they’re female; she tends toward suspicion of the men.”

  Finch nodded with the smile that Jarven withheld; it was all true.

  “I fail to see what this signifies.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  He sighed. “Finch, please. At least do me the courtesy of pretense?”

  “You haven’t tendered me the same courtesy.”

  “You are young. You have decades. I may have a handful of healthy years; time, for me, is of the essence.”

  “Which has nothing at all to do with pretense.”

  “Does it not?”

  “No.” She let her smile fade as she considered Lucille. “I’m uncertain because it will bother her.”

  “Everything—”

  Finch held up one hand. “No, it doesn’t. Everything irritates her, it’s true. But this? It’s serious, and she’ll know it. Lucille is not you, Jarven. She complains about the House, and the idiocy of some House Council policies—she always has. But she’s of the House. She respects you because of what you’ve done for the House; she demands the same respect from anyone who’s part of the House, and still breathing. You know it, I know it.

  “This? It’s not something that will irritate her. I think there’s a very real chance it will upset her—and in the end, to no purpose. She won’t be able to change your mind, and she won’t be able to influence Jay—Jewel—The Terafin—”

  Jarven chuckled.

  “—either. I care about her at least as much as I care about you—and for far better reasons. I don’t want to hurt her. I know you won’t tell her a thing; if she finds out, it will be because of me—or because of an announcement made in the House itself, should Jewel consider your offer with care.” Clearing her throat, she
added, “and what are you offering in return for the concession you demand?”

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, a gesture with which Finch was familiar. His gaze was still sharp, still hard. “You are aware, no doubt,” he finally said, “that I am exceedingly fond of Lucille.”

  “You are. You would never deliberately hurt Lucille. If I may be either bold or foolish, I would swear you would never deliberately hurt me, either.”

  He nodded; there was acknowledgment, but no warmth or encouragement, in the gesture.

  “But you would never deliberately avoid it, if you were focused on a goal, a deal, a significant acquisition.”

  “That is harsh, but perceptive.”

  “Jarven—if I didn’t know this to be true, you’d be impossible. I also understand that you grant me the same courtesy: you know I’ll never go out of my way to deliberately hurt you—if that were even possible—but that I won’t surrender things that would harm me solely to prevent it, either. Lucille is not you—which is why you both trust and like her—and she’s not me. She couldn’t have this conversation—she’d be too busy trying to change your mind.”

  “She knows me,” he said quietly.

  “Yes—but she’d try, anyway. She would feel like a failure, or worse, in the wake of an outcome that you and I acknowledge at the outset is inevitable.”

  After a long pause, he inclined his head. “Let me grant you that point.”

  “What do you offer for the seat? A vacant Council chair this early in a ruler’s reign is an important strategic piece. If you are given the seat, what will you bring to the table that will be to The Terafin’s advantage?”

  He did smile, then; it was a very, very odd smile. “I am inordinately fond of you, Finch, but I will say today that you have done something I would not have considered possible, for a variety of reasons. You have made me proud.”

  The praise moved Finch because it was so unexpected. But it did not change her demands; if anything, it strengthened the certainty that she must be firm and clear-sighted. These negotiations would decide Jay’s future in the House, or a great part of it. So much, resting on the shoulders of this elderly, implacable man.

  “What does The Terafin want?”

  Finch smiled and shook her head. “That is not how this game is played, Jarven. She has something you want. Absent obvious threat—which I am certain, until the end, you will not make—you must now convince her that you have something she needs.”

  “The threat would be effective, given her precarious position.”

  “No, it wouldn’t—and you won’t make it except as a very last resort.”

  “Will I not?”

  “No. Even if you mean it—and I don’t doubt that you do—it will break something between you and Lucille that the few years you have left won’t be long enough to heal. Only if you have no other option will you play that card.”

  “Indeed. I rather resent Haval, at the moment.”

  “Haval has nothing to do with this.”

  “Does he not?”

  “No, Jarven.” Finch rose. “This is you; this is all you. I’ve spent very little time with Haval and Hannerle; I’ve spent sixteen years in the Merchant Authority offices, bringing you both tea and news. If you have not considered what you will offer The Terafin in return for the Council chair, I will leave you to consider it now.”

  “Has it not occurred to you,” Jarven said, also rising, “that it is precisely because I am uncertain of what she needs that I want that chair?”

  “Never,” Finch replied sweetly. “And it never will.” She turned toward the door, and then turned back. “I’ll be in the office tomorrow, unless another demon appears in the Common; given today, I don’t expect it will be all that busy.” She hesitated, and then crossed the room, bridging the gap between them. She hugged him tightly and briefly.

  * * *

  Elonne, Marrick, Iain, and Gerridon came and went. They offered Jewel renewed support in various ways—Gerridon was the most circumspect, Marrick the least. No other members of the House Council crossed her threshold, and the only one that had who had dared to mention Gabriel was Haerrad, which was not a surprise. She wasn’t certain if this was an act of courtesy on their part, because she wasn’t certain, in the end, that they understood how much it grieved her to lose Gabriel.

  Gabriel, who had served Amarais as her right-kin, her most trusted adviser, for all of Jewel’s life in the House, grieved for Amarais’ loss in almost the same way that Jewel did. Losing him, losing that lifetime of their mutual respect and admiration, losing the solidarity of their bereavement, was like losing Amarais again. An echo. An aftershock.

  But even raging—in silence—at Rymark’s very existence, his parting words remained with her. They were not words she had expected to hear in the halls of her own manse.

  When Sigurne Mellifas arrived at the end of the day, Jewel was beyond exhausted. Exhausted had occurred hours ago, and because she had failed to surrender to it, she was in a curious half-state. It was possibly the wrong state in which to encounter the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge, but when Sigurne was escorted into her office, she saw that Sigurne was likewise graced by the same near-emptiness.

  “I have been told,” the guildmaster said, bowing briefly, “that you have reserved the honor of dinner for my appointment.”

  She’d said that, and remembered saying it, to Barston. It seemed curiously displaced in time, although she knew she’d said it only this afternoon. Jewel turned to Avandar, who said, “It is the late dinner hour, Terafin.” To Sigurne, he said, “Please follow.”

  Jewel wanted to return to the West Wing and its large dining hall—or perhaps its breakfast nook. She did neither. Instead, she allowed Avandar to lead the way to The Terafin’s personal chambers—rooms that Jewel had yet to occupy, because to do so, she had to leave behind the familiarity of the home she’d built. Yes, both rooms were in the same manse—but her den would never be a part of these rooms.

  Gabriel had accepted her reluctance—but not in silence. She wondered if Teller would do the same, and the thought surprised her. Before today, she would have assumed the answer was no, because Teller knew what the West Wing meant to her—and to all of them.

  “Gabriel,” Sigurne said, as she walked, “is no longer in the office of the right-kin.”

  “No. He intended to retire the moment Amarais Handernesse ATerafin died, but he remained in the office—as regent, not right-kin—because the situation in the House became so quickly precarious.”

  “Precarious is a charming word, Terafin, and is oft used as understatement.” Sigurne stopped speaking as she mounted the stairs, hand on the gentle curve of the rails. When they reached the upper halls, she apologized. “It has been a very long day. Had it merely been the usual politically motivated form of busy, I would not be here.”

  “Nor would I,” Jewel replied, wanting to offer Sigurne an arm. And why shouldn’t she? She paused as Avandar’s lips pursed, and turned to the guildmaster, offering her the arm.

  Sigurne took it with a wry smile. “I have displaced my cane,” she said, “And Matteos Corvel is not in condition to join me this eve. I had to order him back to bed—as the guildmaster. He is likely to be quite put out for the next few days.”

  “Will you be in the Hall of Wise Counsel on the morrow?”

  “Yes. I think it likely by that time that Matteos will either join me, or be forced to wear manacles and chains—and that much of a loss of dignity, I do not think wise.”

  The arm that Jewel had offered was not decorative; Sigurne leaned heavily on it as they made their way to the guarded, wide doors of the rooms that had been used for so little. Jewel knew that the servants and the kitchen would nonetheless have the private dining room prepared. Nor was she wrong. But she hesitated in the dining room’s door, and the hesitation was obvious.

  She had seen this room, had dined with Amarais, hundreds of times since she had arrived at House Terafin. She had come here
as guest, as confidante, and as counsel. But she had never come here as The Terafin; she had never brought guests of her own.

  “It is hard,” Sigurne said softly.

  Jewel grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin was a woman worthy of respect and devotion, Terafin. Yes, to me, it is obvious. But I am old, and I have seen much; I do not find your grief—contained and controlled so admirably as it usually is—an offense or a weakness. If I have concerns—and I do, as you must suspect—that reaction calms them; it does not exacerbate them.”

  Jewel led her to the chair that Jewel herself usually occupied; Avandar pulled it out, and Avandar tucked it in. He wouldn’t join them at the meal itself; Morretz never had. But he would be a constant presence, and he would warn her if she crossed a dangerous line in her current state of exhaustion.

  He offered wine. Sigurne hesitated, and then nodded, which surprised Jewel. It surprised Jewel enough that she allowed herself to do the same. They sat in silence while Avandar served, and in this, Avandar echoed Morretz. It was surprising, and it was painful. But the pain was dimmer than it had been.

  Sigurne drank, although she drank slowly. Avandar lit candles for their ambience, but he also whispered the magestones to brightness. Above them the ceiling opened to let moonlight in; the night was quiet and blessedly cool. “Terafin,” Sigurne said. “The demon was there for you.”

  This was, of course, the conclusion that Jewel had expected Sigurne to draw; Sigurne was no fool. She considered a rote response about the importance and significance of the Kings, and decided against it; the day had been too long. Instead, she nodded.

  “You fled. Did you flee to the manse?”

  “Yes. I thought the only chance I had of making a difference was upon the Terafin grounds.”

  “And you thought that he would follow.”

  Jewel nodded. “I was certain he would he follow.” This was not entirely the truth, but Sigurne didn’t expect unadulterated truth—not even at an intimate dinner. She spoke to The Terafin, after all.

  “He did. In the few moments before he made that decision, he killed twelve people, among them four of the Kings’ Swords, two of the Astari and six of the Priests. He also destroyed two of the great trees—an echo of the attack that occurred before your disappearance from Averalaan.”