Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “The Terafin asked me to speak with you; she wished you to impart details about the four attacks I did not personally witness—and perhaps about the conclusion of the one I did. Was she aware of the danger to you?”

  “No. And Patris Araven—”

  “Hectore.”

  “Patris Araven. If you wish my aid in any way, you will not inform her.”

  One brow rose as he considered her. “She will discover the facts—”

  “I am not at all certain she will,” Finch replied. “If I were to guess, Jarven is beyond these doors complaining bitterly to Lucille about your arrogance—with a certain arrogance of his own, of course. It is unfortunate that you sent your servant to join him; otherwise, he might be seen to capitulate to your demands for the appointment you desired—with me.” She rose, her legs uncomfortably damp, and reached for the document Jarven had all but discarded. “I will return this to you, Patris Araven.”

  “And I will leave with it, in an obvious fashion.”

  “And return on the morrow with a different document, yes.”

  His gaze assessed her. Her skirts were an unfortunate shade of brown. But she had stood in far grimmer circumstances in far poorer garb; she met his gaze and held it.

  “And Jarven?”

  “Leave Jarven to me.”

  Both brows rose. After a gap of silent seconds, Hectore laughed out loud. “My dear,” he said, rising once again, “you look like a slip of a girl; you look almost meek. Even now, were you standing in a crowded room, I might not notice you. If nothing else can be said of The Terafin, she commands attention.”

  “Attention, where we grew up, wasn’t always desirable.” She smiled. “But where it could not be avoided, we were forced to make other plans.” She continued to hold out the document; Hectore took it.

  “Do you know who might want you dead?”

  “Not yet.” Finch exhaled. “I could name perhaps half a dozen.”

  “And this does not disturb you?”

  “No. It is not, after all, personal.”

  His smile deepened. “Not personal?”

  “As you’ve said, there are always unpleasant acts of factionalism when the succession for a House is contested. But I, as you, had been under the impression that such factionalism was a thing of the past. Foolish, really. I think it best you retire for the day.” She glanced at her skirts. “I will not see you out. If Jarven means to affect ignorance of this day’s events, it’s likely he’s already sent someone to the manse with the urgent and extremely tactful request for a change of clothing—or three.”

  He bowed. “You are an interesting woman, Finch. I almost understand why The Terafin sent me to you.”

  “Don’t misconstrue her motives,” Finch replied, walking toward the doors.

  “I have not made clear what I believe those motives to be.”

  “Which will save us both embarrassment. I look forward to our future dealings.”

  * * *

  Jarven entered the room over an hour later; he found Finch in an unusual position: behind his desk. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, and she appeared to be examining her slightly blurred reflection on the surface of his pristine desk.

  He cleared his throat, and she looked up. She did not, however, stand.

  “So I am now displaced, am I?” he asked, smiling. “It has been a rather vexing afternoon, Finch, and I am in want of the comfort of my desk.”

  “And your tea?”

  “And my tea, but at the moment, I believe I can do without. I trust you had a friendly chat with the Patris?”

  “I did.”

  “And?” He looked, pointedly, at the chairs on the visitor side of the desk, and after a moment, moved one so it sat to the desk’s right side.

  “Why were you so certain that the intended victim of the probable poisoning was me?”

  “Was I? How very odd. Come, Finch. My chair.”

  She rose. “I wouldn’t have noticed,” she replied evenly. “But it appears Patris Araven did.”

  At that, Jarven grimaced. He sat—heavily—in his accustomed chair while Finch occupied, with more grace, the chair he had moved for her benefit. “We will not be able to keep knowledge of this within the office for long.”

  She nodded, glancing at her skirts. “I thought you might have sent for clothing.”

  “I considered it, and did one better. You will borrow a cloak when you leave, and you will find, upon your arrival at the manse, that I have sent three or four very practical bolts of cloth to your rooms. I suggest you speak with your tailor and have him make a few dresses, at least one of which will remain on the premises against future need. I am afraid I was rather cross when speaking with Lucille, and she will, no doubt, knock on these doors within the half hour to ascertain that you are still alive.”

  “She thinks you’re angry at me?”

  “Given the preposterous show Hectore made of his departure? Yes. I imagine the entire office now entertains that opinion.” There was an unpleasant edge to his familiar smile; it looked almost predatory.

  Or perhaps it was just the contrast of lips to eyes; like Hectore, Jarven was capable of smiling in a way that suggested the opposite of warmth or amusement. “I wish you to tell me, in detail, about The Terafin’s past week.”

  Finch said nothing.

  “Finch, I am to be without tea, and without sustenance, for at least this afternoon; I am not in the mood to deal with any obstruction.”

  “Would it be considered obstruction if I accepted your offer of a cloak and took you to lunch at the Placid Sea?”

  “It would rather spoil the appearance of displeasure I have been at pains to convey.”

  “No,” she said softly, “it wouldn’t. Lucille knows how angry you are. I know it.”

  “I wish the others to believe I am angry with you.”

  “Yes. But I wish them to believe it while I’m not hungry.” She was, in fact, lying; she was not hungry at all. The thought of food—and in particular, tea—was nauseating. But Jarven was hungry, he needed to eat, and he had that peculiar brightness in his gaze that meant he would forget something as simple as food, if allowed.

  He glared at her. “You are taking this disappointingly well.”

  “I can, if you prefer, cry or shiver.”

  “It would appeal to my ego,” Jarven said, deserting his chair. “Is it necessary for me to lecture you on the subject of Patris Araven?”

  “No. I know he is dangerously perceptive; I know he is canny.”

  “You say neither as if you mean them.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied, retrieving his walking stick from its position in the corner of the room. “I know you are at least as dangerously perceptive, and I believe you to be more canny; you are certainly more pragmatic.”

  “Pragmatic?”

  “Patris Araven is, in my opinion, genuinely sentimental.”

  “And I am not? You wound me, Finch.”

  She collected his coat and found the cloak of which he spoke. It was, in her estimation, too short for Jarven; she wondered whose it had once been and what it was doing in this office. It was a very, very finely textured wool, and the embroidery along every visible edge was neither simple nor inexpensive. The dye was a deep, blue-purple.

  “If I am dangerous,” he told her, as he allowed her to help him into his coat, “why am I being badgered into leaving my inner sanctum?”

  “At the moment? You are hungry, and you are not actually angry at me.” A fact for which she was, at this moment, grateful. Although Jarven’s voice and mannerisms had not significantly altered, there was an edge to his expression and his posture that reminded Finch—ridiculously, and for no reason she could easily pinpoint—of Duvari. “Come, Jarven. Lunch. I would like to speak to you about the House Council seat, among other things.”

  “I will thank you not to bat your eyelashes at me as if I were an ignorant, gangly youth.” He offered her his arm, and she laughed. They almost made it to the doo
r before Lucille knocked—and entered.

  She was angry. Her anger was a shout to Jarven’s neutral whisper; her lips were set, her face pale. Before she could speak, Jarven lifted a hand. “If you are about to tell me something I already know, I would ask that you come to my office after we’ve closed up for the day.”

  “I’m not here to see you,” was her curt reply. Oh, she was angry. Finch detached herself from Jarven’s arm to close the distance between her and Lucille as quickly as possible. She hugged the older woman tightly.

  Lucille’s hug was larger in every possible way.

  “I’m unharmed, Lucille,” Finch said softly, as she pulled back.

  Lucille said a very cold nothing. She looked down at Finch, and then looked past her shoulder. Finch had seen her this angry only a handful of times.

  “Lucille, Jarven had nothing to do with what happened this afternoon.”

  Lucille did not reply. Jarven remained uncharacteristically silent. After a long moment, Lucille said, “Jarven may well have had something to do with it.” She still wasn’t looking at Finch. “And I am here to tell him that I will resign in some fury if I ever have to cart corpses out of this office in any number again.” She paused and added, “Terafin corpses.”

  “Lucille—”

  “Finch,” Jarven said.

  She turned toward him. He looked younger, sharper, and infinitely less pleasant than the man she habitually served tea. “Jarven, tell her—”

  “I cannot tell her the only thing which would bring her any peace. You can.”

  Lucille snorted.

  But Finch knew, then. She knew what Lucille needed to hear. And she understood, with sudden clarity, that she could not do it. Could she lie? Yes. As Hectore had surmised, Finch was far better at the art of dissembling than her den leader. But she respected Lucille too much for that. “Lucille.”

  Something in Finch’s tone served as warning; the older woman stiffened and dragged her gaze away from Jarven. Her face was pale.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know if you’ve understood from Jarven’s demeanor that the intended victim of the poisoning was me. Jarven believes it; I’m not entirely certain I do. But if it was me, I don’t think it will be the last attempt.”

  “Finch, why? We have a Terafin. The succession was decided the day of The Terafin’s funeral. You aren’t—you can’t intend to take Jarven’s place here.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I fail to see why not,” Jarven replied.

  “You’ll leave the Authority office when you die, and I’m not in a hurry to bury you,” Finch replied. “I don’t have your connections, and had I, I don’t have the confidence to deal with them as you do. If I had been a House Council member for as long as The Terafin, I might be considered an appropriate choice—but I haven’t. No, Lucille, I don’t intend to take Jarven’s place.”

  “Then why, Finch?” She was shaking; it pained Finch to see.

  “Because I think this is about the succession. I can’t explain much more than that, not yet. Maybe not ever. Jewel is The Terafin, but—” here she stopped.

  Jarven came to her rescue, in a manner of speaking. “But The Terafin is at odds with the Kings, and at odds with the Order of Knowledge. I believe Duvari would have her disposed of if the Kings allowed it. Even if he does not, it is clear to many that she is now in command of a power that she neither controls nor fully understands. If The Terafin exceeds her authority—and let me say I do not believe she will do so consciously—someone will step in to take her place.

  “I do not believe that anyone on the House Council has any intention of hurrying her demise. If the demons cannot do it, they will have little luck. But if she somehow manages to do so herself—ah, then, the field is open. The landscape has shifted, Lucille—but in reality, not by so much.” Jarven frowned. “We are to lunch at the Placid Sea. If you wish to join us, Lucille, please ready yourself.”

  * * *

  Lucille did not choose to join them. She said nothing until Finch took her hands; they were cold. “It’s not the fight I would choose,” Finch said, voice low. Her own hands were shaking very slightly. “But I’m not sure I can face it without you. I won’t be hounded from this office—”

  “You most certainly will not be,” was the stern reply. Lucille’s hands tightened, crushing Finch’s. “You don’t know how deadly things can become—”

  “I worked here every day of the Henden of 410,” Finch replied. “During which I would have gladly taken poison on several occasions. I don’t intend to allow myself to be the first victim in an undeclared war. It would kill Jay to lose me, too.”

  “I’ll stay,” Lucille said.

  “Will you forgive Jarven? He didn’t attempt to kill me. He may well be responsible, in the end, for keeping me alive.”

  Lucille snorted. She released Finch’s hands, glared at Jarven, and made her retreat.

  When the door closed on her back, Jarven heaved a theatrical sigh. “She will never forgive me if any harm comes to you,” he said, offering her his arm.

  Finch took it once again. “No,” she said. “And it won’t even be your fault.”

  Jarven chuckled. “You fail to understand the esteem in which Lucille holds me, Finch. In her mind, even the attempt can be attributed to my carelessness.” Before Finch could reply, he added, “And she is not wrong.”

  * * *

  The Placid Sea was quiet, as it often was at this time of year. Jarven ATerafin was a man of enough import that even had it been packed, a table would have been found; nor would it be a simple table wedged between the others in unseemly haste.

  They were given a quiet booth, tucked away in the back, near where the fire burned. Given the temperature, this was a blessing. Jarven sat, and when the two were alone, he reached into a pocket and set a stone upon the table. It had a polished, black-marbled surface, which seemed to absorb more light than it reflected.

  “What are your intentions, Finch?” he asked. His voice, absent the usual humor and gentle wheedling, reminded her of the stone’s surface. It wasn’t pleasant.

  “I intend to keep coming in to work.”

  “You don’t intend to inform The Terafin of today’s events.”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “If you want to waste the time, yes.” This pulled an almost unwilling smile from the corners of his lips. “You already know why, Jarven.”

  “Yes, I do. I believe I have said before that I consider your protective instincts in this case to be wasted.”

  “I don’t believe that’s how you put it at the time, but, yes, you’ve made yourself clear.” Finch’s smile was entirely unfettered. “I was prepared,” she told him, as the smile faded, “for a House War. I’ve known the Captains of the Chosen since the first day I arrived at the Terafin manse; I’ve spoken with them.

  “But even if I hadn’t, I was ATerafin when Alea died. I was ATerafin when Courtne died. I was ATerafin when Captain Alayra was murdered. Those were overtures in a more unpleasant war; we all understood it.” She exhaled. “We understood what we were facing. We were relieved when Jay—Jewel—was acclaimed The Terafin. We’d lived in the shadow of war, and we’d emerged.”

  “War casts a long shadow, and it is seldom singular.”

  “I know. I was there—I was present—when The Terafin died. I saw what killed her. If you ask what I intend, it hasn’t changed. I intend to do everything in my power to support and strengthen the rule of Jewel Markess ATerafin.”

  “And you, of course, risk death to do so.”

  “Of course.”

  “You mentioned the House Council seat,” he said, after a long pause.

  Finch nodded. “I thought it unwise to give you the seat while you retained power in the Merchant Authority.”

  “And now?” Had her companion been any other man, Finch might have resented the discussion; it seemed unnecessary. But Jarven often surprised her, and regardless, could not be moved to change h
is pace once he had set it.

  “I will recommend that it be given you.”

  His smile was sharp. “I will still retain far more power than The Terafin should be comfortable placing in my hands.”

  “Yes. I’m not entirely comfortable with it now.”

  “But today’s little fiasco has changed your opinion?”

  “It’s shifted it, yes. Jarven—you’ll do what you want, in the end; I think you always have. But you’re angry. Lucille is angry.”

  “And you are not.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No. I should be. Perhaps, when I am in the safety of my own rooms, I will be.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  She didn’t. “I don’t think you will work against The Terafin. I don’t think you would work against me.”

  “You are not The Terafin.”

  “No.”

  “Has it not occurred to you, Finch, that the one certain way I have to preserve your life is to make a deal?”

  She stiffened and paled. Finch was seldom angry with Jarven; she was angry now. “Do not make me the excuse for the games you might choose to play. Never, ever do that to me. I am not Lucille.”

  “Lucille would accept such a deal.”

  “No, Jarven, she wouldn’t.”

  “And if I made such a deal to preserve Lucille’s life? Or The Terafin’s?”

  “Nothing can kill The Terafin,” she replied, with utter conviction. She did not answer the first question, and he allowed this.

  “There are, however, things that can hurt her.”

  Finch nodded.

  “Very well. I want the House Council seat, as you are well aware. I feel, given the shift in your attitude, that I have lost valuable time while I have played this excessive waiting game. I do not intend to abuse the joint power the seat will give me. What word can I give you, Finch, that you will trust?”

  She shook her head. “That’s not how this game will be played, Jarven. We’ve known each other for over half my life. Tell me what you want.”

  “At this very moment, my precocious little assistant, I want two things. I have agreed that I will accept a junior aide who will report to Lucille and The Terafin.”

  Finch nodded.