Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

She was silent.

  “Terafin, allow me to make myself clear—”

  “You have made yourself clear, Patris Araven. Spare us both your descent into threats, veiled or otherwise. If it is vengeance—”

  “It is justice.”

  “Even so. If it is justice you seek, you will not find it.”

  He lifted his glass. “You speak with certainty.”

  She nodded.

  “And without surprise. Do you find it so easy to believe that I am here for my stated reasons?”

  “It did not occur to me to disbelieve you.”

  She meant it. “Your predecessor would, of course, maintain the polite fiction of belief; she would not have believed it.”

  “Of you? Although she had known you since she was a child? I think you underestimate her.”

  He offered her a genuine smile—the first. “She was not a woman it was wise to underestimate, but in this, I believe I am correct. She would attempt, of course, to discern the truth, to see what lay beyond the simple, sentimental cloak. She would look for strategy.”

  “I was not raised in the same elevated circles to which she was born,” Jewel replied. “I was raised, in large part, by my Oma—a woman who would have come here for just such a purpose, and would not have been easily dissuaded. If at all. Am I correct in assuming that you believed I had some hand in the death of your granddaughter?”

  “I entertained it as a possibility.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Andrei cleared his throat. Hectore grimaced. “I note that your domicis is full capable of remaining neutral in such a discussion.”

  The Terafin snorted.

  Hectore laughed. He laughed, and he once again resumed eating. “The sleepers, to my knowledge, woke twice of their own accord. Each time they did so, they spoke of a shared dream. It was clear to me that although their accounts differed, they differed because they did not have the words to describe what they had seen. But their dreams and the events at The Terafin’s funeral were, to my mind, connected. The Order of Knowledge is concerned about both your secrecy and your existence. It is rumored that the Kings themselves, and their Astari, are likewise concerned.”

  “More than a rumor, I’m afraid. They are.”

  “Ah. It would seem, to the untutored eye, that you are at the heart of a storm—a storm into which my innocent granddaughter was swept. She did not survive. Tell me, then, that it was not a storm of your making.”

  “It was not. It is my hope, within the next three days, that the sleepers will waken, and that their sleep from this point on will be natural.”

  “Too late for my grandchild.”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes. I am sorry.”

  “Very well, Terafin. I have seen your . . . library. I have seen the giant, winged beast you call a cat. I have heard the song the Senniel bards have been singing at every available venue. I do not consider that wise, by the way.”

  “I like it even less than you.”

  “It is clear to me that you have information that I lack. You are not a callow child; you are The Terafin. I am willing to offer certain considerations in exchange for that information.”

  “And those considerations?”

  “They are not to be easily codified, of course. You will, by informing me, put me in your debt. I will owe you a favor.” He glanced, briefly, at Andrei. He had not retreated to the wall, but he was no longer attempting to offer unsubtle criticism; he was watching The Terafin intently, his eyes slightly narrowed, his posture disturbing.

  “What information?” she asked.

  “Who was responsible for the death of my grandchild? The illness was not a natural one, in both my opinion and the endless, bickering opinions of the mages who happened to linger like vultures within the healerie.”

  “Patris Araven—”

  “Hectore.”

  “Hectore. If I were to tell you that gods were responsible for your granddaughter’s death, how then would you proceed?”

  “If you were to tell me that gods were, indeed responsible, and if you were to name them?”

  She nodded.

  “I would do all within my power to beggar their churches within the Empire. And beyond it.”

  Her brows rose; he had surprised her. He had not surprised Andrei, but then again, little did.

  “Perhaps that was a bad example. If I were to tell you that the water, the wind, or a similar elemental force was to blame, would you then attempt to destroy the ocean?”

  “No. I do what is within my means, no more. But I will not allow you to decide that something is beyond my means. I have heard,” he said, when she did not immediately reply, “that you have been targeted by an unfortunate number of assassins since you were acclaimed as Terafin.”

  “I would consider one to be an unfortunate number,” she replied. “But I will not deny it.”

  “I have also heard that some of these assassins were not human.”

  “Given the debacle at the planned victory parade, I will not even question your sources. It is true.”

  Jewel. Be cautious.

  “The collection—of both inhuman and very human assassins—implies something to a man of my means.”

  “And that?”

  “There is a blend of mortal and immortal interests. The mortal assassins were not merely conjured and sent to die at the hands of your Chosen. They were approached and they were paid. They were not paid in empty, elemental promises, I assure you.”

  “Can you?”

  Andrei would, Hectore had no doubt, be tight-lipped and rigid for the next three days at the contents of this discussion. “I can. You are The Terafin. Your House and the politics of its position are something I understand almost intimately. It is clear that unnatural forces are interested in those politics, but they are playing a portion of their game in an arena of which I am master.

  “Give me information, Terafin. I will put my considerable resources toward locating your hidden enemies. I will, if they can be found, beggar them in my ire.”

  She was silent for a long moment. When she lifted her chin, she looked troubled, to Hectore’s eye. “I would appreciate your help, Hectore. I would appreciate it more than I can adequately say; I have heard rumors that you’ve bested Jarven in his own games at the height of his power.”

  Before he could answer, she lifted a hand. “Let them remain rumors. I have had some difficulty with Jarven in recent weeks, and it has not yet drawn to a satisfactory close for either of us; he will, no doubt, be annoyed with your presence in my personal chambers.

  “Let me repeat myself: I would appreciate your help, and the indirect access to your considerable, and unnamed, resources. But I will not have you offer that aid under false pretenses. You grieve for your grandchild—and I admire and respect that; it is rare, among the patriciate. But I do not think you addled with grief, and I will not condescend to use that grief for my own purposes.”

  He smiled. He had to smile; there was something in the girl that reminded him much of her predecessor in her youth. “You must learn,” he said, as if he was speaking to that girl, and not the woman who ruled House Terafin, “to align your needs with the needs of those who might be of use to you. If you choose to use my rage, it will, in the end, benefit us both.”

  Andrei cleared his throat.

  Hectore looked pained. He was; he simply allowed his annoyance to show. “Andrei. Note the remarkable restraint shown by The Terafin’s domicis.” He did not look at his servant. Nor did Andrei speak, although the clearing of throat implied that he might, which would be its own class of disaster. It was not a disaster that the current Terafin would find offensive, in his estimation.

  “I am not certain that the forces that robbed you of your granddaughter are aligned with the forces that conspire against me in such obvious—and public—ways.”

  “Are you not?”

  She inhaled. Exhaled. “Have you heard of the Warden of Dreams?”

  He frowned. “Andrei, have I?�
�

  “Perhaps in your youth.”

  “You are familiar with the title.”

  “I am, Patris.” He came into view of the table. “You claim that Patris Araven lost a grandchild to the machinations of the Warden of Dreams?”

  The Terafin nodded gravely, as if she were entirely accustomed to answering the questions posed her by impertinent servants. “I do not understand how, but the Warden of Dream derives power from those who dream. The sleepers across the city—and on the Isle—were caught in a web of his making.”

  “If that were the case, why have we not seen similar, historical outbreaks?”

  “Perhaps we have; records were not always closely kept during the reign of the Blood Barons.”

  “And so we might have seen such an epidemic some five centuries in the past, or more?”

  She pursed her lips. “I do not know. I admit that I have not done the research that you appear to have done; I was—and am—concerned with the present. I do not believe that the Warden of Dreams is entirely allied with the Lord of the Hells.” She did not speak the god’s name.

  Andrei continued to speak, glancing once at Hectore, who nodded. “Not entirely allied, or not allied at all? They are, as you must be aware, different statements.”

  “The Warden of Dreams is not one entity, but two.”

  “Nightmare and Dream.”

  Her brows rose. She glanced at her own domicis, but thought better of drawing him into the conversation that Andrei should have had the bearing to likewise avoid. “Yes.”

  Andrei’s expression was made harsher by the light from above. “The power was gathered in order to allow some attack to be made during The Terafin’s funeral.” It was not a question.

  The Terafin nodded slowly. “That is my understanding—but my understanding is a superficial thing. I understand the effects of a storm, without understanding the events that bring a storm into being. I use utensils such as these,” she continued, lifting a fork, “every day, but I cannot tell you how the metals that comprise them are extracted from the mines in which they are found. I can you tell you they are; I can act on that fact.

  “I do not think that death was the desired end of the entrapment. I do not think he considered it at all; it is no part of his dominion. And I do not think it possible to be avenged against him; I am not even certain how you would try.”

  “Do you have some guess as to how you would?”

  She blinked as Hectore entered the conversation. “No.” She glanced at her wrist, and then back. “I can hate the Lord of the Hells,” she said. “I can devote my life—and everything that entails—to fighting him. But it isn’t personal. He is a god. I’m not. I’m so far beneath his notice I might capture his attention for a few seconds, the way birdsong captures ours. I would feel relief if he was destroyed, but . . .”

  “But no personal satisfaction.”

  She closed her eyes. “I remember the Henden of 410. But even so, no.”

  “And this Warden is like a god, to you?”

  “Or like the Wild Hunt. He is not like my cats.” She paused. “And yet, to you, he must be.”

  “Very well. This is excellent wine. You are not entirely open, and that is perhaps as it should be. I have promised my daughter that I will see her daughter avenged, and I have made a reputation as a man who lives up to—or perhaps down to—his vows. Your own satisfaction, your own sense of the personal, matters little to me. Andrei’s words have a weight for me that yours have not yet achieved. The power that was gathered was meant to be used on the first day of The Terafin’s funeral rites. It was meant to be brought to bear upon the powerful and noteworthy; it was meant to encompass even the Kings.

  “That it did not, in the end, was due in large part to your interference—an interference that cannot be explained to anyone’s satisfaction by the Order of Knowledge or the god-born. The sons of Teos will not answer questions about the event; I know. I have tried to ask them. Do you understand your interference in any greater detail than you understand your fork?”

  Her brows rose; her lips turned up in an unexpected—and possibly unwanted—smile. Only a fool would clearly announce ignorance about such a gallingly unexpected power. She was not—quite—a fool. “Certainly more than that.”

  “Everyone who comes to a negotiation of any difficulty brings to the table his or her own motives, desires, and concessions. I have perhaps been more open than my servant would like; I have made clear what my desire and my motivations are. You are uncertain that my desires will be satisfied should I choose to ally myself with you—and I should use that uncertainty to my advantage in our negotiations. But as you have been so disarmingly honest, I will not.

  “My enemy has an interest in your House. He has an interest in you. He has an interest in the death of the Kings—and no man of any sanity wants that. If I cannot kill this Warden, if I cannot damage him upon his own ground, I can damage him in other ways.”

  “The Warden—”

  “The Warden served interests that were not his own. You may be uncertain; I am not.”

  The Terafin fell silent as the next course was delivered. It was a soup, in a low, flat bowl, from which steam rose.

  “These dishes are enchanted?” Hectore asked.

  “To preserve heat. If the soup is poisoned,” she added, smiling, “the dishes will either crack or discolor.”

  “Which?”

  “In this case, they will crack. We will apologize for the inferiority of our dishes, and we will clear them. It is not for the latter property that they’re used here; my rooms are as far from the kitchens as it’s possible to get while still remaining within the same building.”

  “And are we?”

  “In the same building? Yes.” Her expression hardened as she lifted a spoon. “What would you have of me, then? I can tell you of my encounters with the Warden and the dreamers. Of necessity, my explanations will be lacking; I am not a member of the Order of Knowledge, and I am not considered particularly learned.”

  “I would, at the minimum, require that information,” Hectore replied, lifting his own spoon. The soup was hot. “I would not limit myself to that information, however. You spoke of the public assassination attempt. It was not clear that the creature that made its attack during the victory parade was there for you; it is assumed in many circles that it meant to kill the Kings.”

  “That may well have been some part of the demon’s mission,” she replied. “Demons were sent to Avantari during the funeral.” She hesitated again. “I’m not good at negotiating without objective measures. I have no way of assessing the value of the information I provide; I have no way of assessing the value of the aid you offer. To be honest—”

  “A phrase generally used when honesty is not offered.”

  She grimaced. “Not by me. I can’t see how the information I might provide will be of any practical use to you at all.”

  “No. You have your own information networks. You are aware of the nature of the assassins sent against you; I am not. But as I pointed out, the assassins are paid. Even the most expensive and elusive of assassins require a fee, and the fee is not conjured by magic. Nor is the sum of money inconsiderable. Have you tracked down possible sources?”

  “Only a few, and those possible sources are not, I’m afraid, on the table.”

  They must, in her estimation, be internal.

  “I would be comfortable having this conversation in the Merchant Authority,” she said.

  “The Merchant Authority over which Jarven presides?”

  “The same. It’s not for Jarven’s sake, but my own. One of the junior members of my House Council has worked under his auspices for years. If we are to reach any solid agreement, I want her there.”

  “You refer to Finch ATerafin?”

  The Terafin nodded.

  “And you would expect any dealings between our two Houses to go through Finch?”

  “If that’s acceptable to you, yes.”

  “May I a
sk why?”

  “We came from the same place. I don’t trust Jarven the way I trust Finch.”

  “If you’ve any sense, you won’t trust him at all.”

  She smiled. “Amarais trusted him.”

  “Amarais was content to let him run loose, secure in the knowledge that most of the damage he caused was aimed outward. Very well. Finch, then.”

  The Terafin fell silent again. Then she looked across the table and said, “Tell me about your godson.”

  “Ararath?”

  “I called him Rath. Some of the information I have goes all the way back to our first meeting.” She lifted the chain that hung around her neck, and exposed the Handernesse signet to the light. “Amarais left this for me; I believe it was Rath’s.”

  “It was not Ararath’s.”

  “He was wearing it when he died.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Demons.” There was no doubt at all in her voice.

  “When?”

  “Just before I came to the Terafin manse. Sixteen years ago, maybe seventeen. You must have known some of what he was involved in,” she added.

  “I assure you he did not discuss his business with me.”

  “No?” She looked pointedly at Andrei. “Avandar,” she said, her gaze still fixed on Hectore’s servant, “Please, set a third place at the table, and inform the kitchen.”

  Andrei glanced at Hectore, who sighed. “Very well. But I will remind you that I am speaking with The Terafin, and preservation of my dignity is therefore a necessity. This is Andrei. He has been with me for decades; he is only slightly less necessary to my household than my cooks.”

  “You came to save Rath,” she said to Andrei.

  “That was the result of my meeting with Ararath; it was not my intent. But, yes, Terafin, the enemies that he had inadvertently gained showed considerable power. You were unexpected. I believe your interference was responsible for saving his life that night; had you not arrived, I would have arrived too late. You are seer-born?”

  “I am. The powers of the seer-born in story are greatly exaggerated. You came prepared for magical difficulty.”

  Andrei said nothing.

  The Terafin accepted this. “At that time, a merchant—Patris AMatie—was involved. He had shown a great interest in artifacts that Rath had collected. He was not without power, and not without countenance. His merchant concerns were both genuine and legitimate. We assume that funding—for assassins, for intelligence—comes from similar sources.”