Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  Important guests, of course, were not left waiting unless they were preceded by guests of notably greater import. Hectore would therefore judge the level of discourtesy when the right-kin’s office opened and the guest who had clearly overstayed his or her welcome departed.

  Except that that was not how it went. Doors did open, but they were not the doors that led to the right-kin’s office; they were the doors that led to—and from—the external rooms in which the secretary held the world at bay.

  Into the room walked a handful of men and women. Half of these were the justifiably respected Terafin Chosen, but for the rest? A man from Arrend, a younger man and woman, an older man cut in the style of severe servanting that was Andrei on a tear, and—a member of the Order of Knowledge. Hectore did not deal directly with the Order of Knowledge except at large gatherings; he was not therefore immediately familiar with this one.

  Andrei, however, was. He gestured and Hectore’s gaze sharpened as the young woman and the young man resolved themselves into the current Terafin and her right-kin. The young man now separated himself from his group and approached Hectore, tendering a perfect, and slightly deeper-than-necessary bow.

  “Patris Araven,” he said, rising. “Please accept my apologies for the delay.”

  Hectore was gracious, and dismissed the obvious, notable delay with a wave of the hand. “I do not believe we’ve met,” he said, extending a hand. “I am Hectore of House Araven.”

  “Teller ATerafin,” the right-kin replied. “Please, join me in my office.”

  Hectore, however, had turned toward the woman at the center of this hub.

  The ATerafin right-kin likewise turned; it would have been awkward to do less. “My apologies again,” he said, with a wry smile. “Patris Araven, The Terafin.”

  The Terafin took a step forward just as the doors flew open at such speed it spoke well of their hinges. Hectore’s brows rose; through long practice, his mouth remained closed.

  “They didn’t want to let me in,” the newest visitor growled. Speech, in the offices in which politics were the practiced game, was not unexpected—but a giant panther with wings, golden eyes, and fangs that seemed longer than daggers, was. This was not the white cat that eluded memory so neatly, like a dream on the edge of waking. This was nightmare. But, Hectore had to admit, it was a whiny nightmare.

  The Terafin wheeled on the spot, composure forgotten, her hands falling to her hips. “Shadow, I told you to stay outside.”

  “You asked,” the great beast replied. “It was boring in the hall.”

  “You were in the hall for all of a minute,” she replied, in a voice tight with irritation.

  “Everyone else is having fun.” He turned to look around the room at large, and his eyes came to rest not upon Hectore, but Andrei. “Who is this?”

  Andrei, ever the impeccable servant, had taken stock of the situation—which involved a giant cat with large wings and unfortunate fangs—and failed to answer. He did, however, glance at Hectore.

  “He is my servant,” Hectore replied, speaking directly to the cat.

  The cat turned his golden eyes upon the Patris of Araven; it was disconcerting. “Who are you?”

  The Terafin dropped hand onto the cat’s head, from enough of a height that its landing was not notably gentle. “He is my guest.”

  “Oh, guests.”

  “My deepest apologies, Patris Araven,” the young woman then said, regaining the composure she had set aside to admonish the creature—as if Hectore, in this room, were more of a danger than the cat.

  “Accepted,” Hectore replied, staring at the cat and his master for a long moment before he smiled. “I have seldom seen talking animals before, and never outside of these grounds.”

  The cat growled. The Terafin’s knuckles whitened.

  “I am therefore uncertain as to the level of manners such a creature would be expected to display.” He now turned the full force of his attention upon The Terafin. Jewel Markess ATerafin. Hanging from a slender golden chain looped around her neck, was a ring Hectore recognized; it was the Signet of House Handernesse. So. Andrei was, as usual, correct.

  She was shrewd, this young woman; she noted the direction of his gaze, and its length, and she lifted her hand from the cat’s head. She did not, however, slide the necklace and its ring beneath the folds of her dress. He considered his options with care. Sometimes he chose to rely on his instincts, but he had amassed a wealth of experience, much of it in the company of competent young women, and on occasion he allowed that experience to be his guide.

  “The ring you wear,” he said quietly.

  She stiffened, but nodded; there was nothing uncontrolled about the gesture. Her eyes were wide, her gaze clear. She intended to meet him, he thought.

  “It is the signet usually worn by the Handernesse. As I have seen that young man at a funeral recently, I can be relatively certain that it is not, in fact, the crest of Handernesse. But at this distance, Terafin—and my eyes are not what they once were—it bears a remarkable resemblance.”

  “It was left to me,” she told him evenly, “by Amarais Handernesse ATerafin upon her death. It, and a sword.”

  She did not, by tone, refer to the House Sword. “I am . . . surprised . . . that she had that ring in her keeping. Her departure from the house of her birth was not without consequence.”

  “I doubt very much,” was the surprisingly bitter reply, “that she received this ring from Handernesse.”

  He inhaled, exhaled, and threw a brief warning glance at Andrei. “I should tell you, Terafin, that I was Ararath Handernesse’s godfather.”

  Her eyes widened; she did not yet have the composure to pull back from the expression that adorned her open face. So, he thought.

  “You knew Rath?”

  “That is not what I called him, although that was his preference; he allowed much to a fond, old man. Yes, Terafin. I knew Rath. I knew him as a child in House Handernesse; it was to me he came when his sister chose to withdraw from the House of her birth to accept adoption into House Terafin. I saw him seldom in his later years, but he was kind enough to visit, and on occasion, to write.”

  He felt no qualms about exposing his open affection for Ararath; he seldom felt qualms about using the truth to achieve his own goals. Lies were trickier things, although he was adept at their use as well. She was young. She was, he thought, too young.

  But she surprised him; she turned toward Andrei, and her eyes narrowed, her brow creasing in open concentration before her eyes widened.

  Andrei bowed to her; it was, for one who knew Andrei, surprisingly genuine. “Yes, Terafin,” he said, as he rose. “We have met before. You were younger, and I? I was not so finely dressed.”

  “Who is he?” The cat growled again.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. There was no suspicion in her, not for Andrei, which was surprising. “But he came to help Rath when Rath needed help.”

  “As, I believe, did you. And you were not of age, Terafin, at that time. The others who were with you?”

  “They’re here. Not right here,” she added, as his glance shifted. “But they live here. They work within the Terafin manse, and they are all ATerafin.”

  Andrei shocked Hectore—although Hectore was far, far too accomplished to allow it to show. He smiled. “Ararath wore that ring.”

  It was only barely a question. But The Terafin’s expression changed. “That is my belief, yes. I don’t know for certain.”

  “But you suspect it.”

  “I do. Another acquaintance of Rath’s—of Ararath’s—led me to believe that this was the case. She is seldom mistaken.” The words were bitter.

  “I did not travel here with the intent of speaking about my godson,” Hectore said gently, “and I am aware that your time is in great demand, if rumors are to be believed.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Jarven ATerafin did not wish to disturb you, given the nature of ‘The Terafin’s extremely significant s
chedule.’” Andrei frowned; he disliked it when Hectore publicly impersonated the dignitaries of his acquaintance.

  The Terafin, however, chuckled. “Yes, that would be Jarven.” She was in no obvious way similar to the woman who had previously held the House. Too warm, Hectore thought. But she had noticed Andrei, and she had been utterly certain that he was the same man she had seen in the dark of an evening half her life ago. “I am very busy,” she added, her voice dropping.

  Her domicis gave her a look that would have been at home on Andrei’s face, and given his mimicry of the head of Terafin operations in the Merchant Authority, probably was. “You are understandably in demand, even by successful old men such as myself.”

  “If you didn’t come here to talk about Rath—”

  “No. Ararath was not kindly viewed by most of the society in which he would have otherwise made his home. There are few indeed who remember him, and of those, fewer who do so kindly. I did not speak to The Terafin about her brother.”

  “She loved him,” Jewel replied. “Even if she didn’t speak of him often. I would not be here if not for her continued affection. It wasn’t The Terafin who disavowed Rath—it was Rath. Had he come here—had he ever come here, she would have welcomed him. She would—” she swallowed and stemmed the tide of her words.

  I have you, he thought, without malice. “Ararath was proud in a way that few men are. It was his strength,” he added, “but it was costly. What he loved, he loved—but he brooked no betrayal. I am grateful that matters of trade brought me to your House, Terafin, although those matters are no longer uppermost in my thoughts. I realize you are much in demand, but even the Kings require sustenance.

  “If it is not too bold, might I request a dinner in the near future? I have a few mementos of my wayward godson, and I believe they should go to you.”

  “I think Jarven will be displeased,” she replied.

  “Oh, undoubtedly, but it keeps him moving, and it would be a welcome change from the doddering dotard he plays on most days.”

  Andrei’s expression was glacial; its chill could barely be avoided. Hectore smiled, enjoying himself greatly.

  “Yes, I would love that.” She turned to the right-kin. “Teller, could you—”

  “Of course, Terafin.”

  “Not tomorrow; if I get out of Avantari before dawn, it will be a miracle. Not a small one,” she added. “But perhaps the day after? The late dinner hour?”

  “I would be honored. Will you join me in Araven, or should I return to the manse?”

  “The manse,” she replied.

  “Terafin,” her domicis said stiffly, and the girl froze. But she weathered his disapproval and whatever lay beneath it.

  “Very well,” Hectore said, bowing. “I will be at your service the day after tomorrow, and perhaps discussions of trade may commence—in a casual way—at that time.”

  * * *

  Andrei did not speak a word until they were well ensconced in the carriage, and a silence stone had been invoked—with a heavier hand than Hectore felt circumstance required. “That was unwise in the extreme,” he said dourly.

  “Which part?”

  “You will, without a doubt, offend Jarven—and while our dealings with Terafin are not broad, Jarven has been known to cause trouble beyond his holdings when it suits him.”

  “And we have survived it passingly well until now, Andrei.”

  “She is not a fool. She seems young to you now, but she is a danger.”

  “She is sentimental,” Hectore replied, gazing out the window. “But I am sentimental, Andrei. I think we may be of comfort to each other. It is clear to me that she and Amarais spoke of Ararath on more than one occasion—and that Amarais left the ring to her. I did not lie to her.”

  “Not in so many words, no. You will find maneuvering far more difficult than you expect if you do not regard her as the power she demonstrably is.”

  “I am perfectly capable of acknowledging both power and sentiment, Andrei.”

  Andrei said nothing for a long moment. “I mistrust your instincts in this. You have built a small empire, Hectore—but you are not interested in The Terafin for reasons of expansion or defense. Sentiment clouds judgment when it is the only motivation.”

  Hectore’s smile dimmed. “Jarven is, as you saw, interested—personally interested—in The Terafin.”

  “Jarven has nothing to lose.” When Hectore raised brow, Andrei continued. “There is very little within the Terafin merchant arm that he feels responsible for, now. But where Jarven plays, there is death.”

  “Exaggeration, surely.”

  “I have misgivings, Hectore. On the eve that I first made the acquaintance of Jewel Markess, as she must have been styled then, I thought her mage-born, and dangerously early into her power. Ararath made clear that it was not a subject for my concern—but that further interest on my part would be a grave difficulty. For him. I believe he thought of killing me—”

  “Not this again, Andrei.”

  Andrei frowned. “I trust you to know your business. Trust me to know my own.”

  Hectore conceded, but with ruffled grace. “Ararath was many things, and I acknowledged them when forced to do so. You, however, are accusing him of gross, inconceivable stupidity.”

  “I merely said he considered it. However, you evade the point.”

  Hectore sighed and turned to his servant. “And that?”

  “You trust me to know my business. I trust you to know yours. But this is not a gambit in a desperate trade war. This is outside of our experience. Leave it, Hectore. Talk to her, if you must, about Ararath—your instincts there are remarkably sound. But leave the rest.”

  The merchant prince smiled benignly. “I will know what caused my granddaughter’s death, Andrei.”

  “And if it were, inadvertently, The Terafin?”

  “Then she will, in all likelihood, die.”

  * * *

  Jewel was silent for a long moment after Patris Araven’s departure. She had not expected to speak about Rath—in public, no less—today, and the mention of his name—by a man who claimed to be his godfather—had unbalanced her in a way that even the library’s transformation had failed to do.

  She understood, from Shadow’s reaction, that it was the servant, not the merchant, who was the obvious threat—but she wanted to talk to the merchant. She wanted to hear what he had to say. Rath had never mentioned a godfather, but that was Rath.

  Do not let your affection for a dead man cause a misstep.

  Hectore of Araven is significant in his own right, she argued. And he was genuinely fond of Rath. It was true. She knew it the way she knew anything of import to her.

  She was aware of House Araven; it would be hard to be a merchant of any standing and remain in complete ignorance of Hectore. But their concerns only peripherally clashed with Terafin’s. “Send word to Finch,” she told her right-kin, “and ask for pertinent information on Araven and its possible new concerns.”

  Jewel turned to face the messengers who waited. She accepted their messages—verbal, all—in the right-kin’s office, mindful of the need for rudimentary caution. Avandar let her know that her definition of rudimentary would not pass muster unless the audience was under the age of four. He was annoyed.

  She grimaced; Korisamis was reluctant to commit to the meeting time, and she had little leverage. “Tell your lord,” she said, in a carefully modulated tone of respect, “That my timing in this is not entirely of my own choosing.” She considered dragging Duvari’s name into the message, but decided against it; the Korisamis could not easily be moved by common enemy. “The matters to be discussed affect not only The Ten, but the hundred. I called Council given the severity of the difficulty, but it is not a negotiable difficulty. It is what it is.

  “The meeting will therefore occur. I will, of course, understand if his own concerns prevent participation, but feel that if this is the case, a suitable member of the Korisamis Council would not be remiss.”
/>
  The messenger bowed stiffly; the stiff bow was a custom maintained within Korisamis. “And the timing?”

  “I have been summoned to an audience with the Exalted,” she replied. “Therefore, no earlier accommodation can be reached. The Exalted are aware of the prior Council session, and they will not interfere.”

  He bowed again and retreated.

  She turned to Teller. “Rymark.”

  Teller nodded.

  “Here, in my office, or in my library?”

  Meralonne said, “In your library, Terafin,” before Teller could respond. Jewel nodded acknowledgment, not assent, and turned to her domicis. The polite fiction of a one-sided relationship between master and servant was not, at this point, practical.

  “If you are reasonably confident that there will be no trouble—or that trouble, in a public venue, would be to your advantage, I would counsel the use of the right-kin’s office. Inviting—or commanding—Rymark ATerafin’s presence in your inner sanctum will be noted by the whole of the House Council.”

  “And if I have no clear idea of how this discussion will proceed?”

  He was verbally silent. You control the conversation, he told her. You therefore must have some clear idea of how you would like it to proceed.

  They waited. Begin, her Oma said, as you mean to continue. “The library.”

  * * *

  Jewel arrived in the library before Rymark, as intended. She did not proceed to the interior of the library, but waited at the wrought-iron gateway. The breeze was stronger than it had been, and her hair, never the most tidy, had fallen in her eyes. She considered—not for the first time—shaving her head. The Korisamis was bald, and no one blinked.

  Meralonne APhaniel waited by her side. He carried no pipe; nor did he ask if a pipe was permissible. His mood was grim; he stood at his full height. Seen like this—as he so seldom was—it was impossible to be unaware of his power, although he wielded no obvious magic.