Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

“I will withdraw that. I will accept, instead, a promotion—for you. You will be my adjutant, and your function in my office will not markedly change—but you will have title and responsibility within these offices that are second to none.”

  Her brows rose.

  “Yes,” he said, as wine and bread were brought to rescue them from their lack of any refreshments. “We will share a title, within the Authority.”

  “That is hardly likely to make me less of a target.”

  “Nothing will make you less of a target, my dear. But The Terafin trusts you; she has no doubt of your loyalty at all. I will offer her that. In fact,” he added, his smile becoming the smile with which she was so familiar. “I believe I will insist on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  FINCH RETURNED two hours later than usual from the Merchant Authority, in time—barely—to catch the tail end of the late dinner hour. She entered the West Wing holding her breath, and exhaled when Ellerson failed to materialize. A brief check of Carver’s room confirmed what she already knew: it was empty.

  Angel was pacing; Jester was in the great room with Arann, who was off-duty. Teller had not yet returned from the right-kin’s office. He was the only member of the den whose day started earlier, and often ended later, than Finch’s.

  “Where’s Daine?”

  “In the healerie. No, there was no emergency,” Jester added quickly. “But he’s been interviewing people for positions as assistants. He’s enjoying it about as much as you’d expect.”

  Given Daine’s age, her expectations in that regard were quite low. She spent some time chatting with Angel, who was clearly restless; Arann was his usual silent self. Jester, since Carver’s inexplicable disappearance, had become almost as silent; everyone marked it more.

  But it was Teller to whom Finch wanted to speak. She considered the events at the Merchant Authority dispassionately, and decided to set them aside for now. They were the subject for a kitchen council. Finch had called council before, but never when Jay was in the manse—and she was, if the environs that now constituted The Terafin’s personal chambers could be considered part of the manse.

  Besides, she was worried about Teller. The only person who worried in public was Jay. Everyone else’s worries were more focused, more personal. She retired for the evening, but as she made her way to her own bed, she heard the doors open, and saw Teller walk into the hall. He glanced at the doors to the great room; his shoulders stiffened. Instead of entering those doors, he retreated into Finch.

  That had been a tactical mistake on his part. Finch saw it in his expression, but she was willing to take advantage of it. She lifted her hands in quick den-sign, and he answered, after a significant pause, the same way. They retreated to his rooms.

  “You’ve eaten?” she asked softly, when the door was closed.

  He nodded. “Barston brought food. He doesn’t approve of eating in the office,” he added, with a grimace, “but forces himself to make exceptions.” He sat heavily in the chair in front of his writing desk—a desk that had once been tidy, but was now cluttered with papers and ledgers.

  He was pale, the lower half of his eyes accented by dark semicircles. Finch did not attempt to fill the silence that followed his last words; it descended around them both. When it had become thick enough to be uncomfortable—a rare occurrence between two of the quieter members of the den, she chose her words with care.

  “You’ve barely spoken a word,” she said softly, “since you returned from Avantari.”

  “I’ve spoken several thousand,” he replied, with a rueful grin.

  “Not to us. Not to any of us.”

  She waited, watching his carefully guarded expression. She had known Teller for over half her life; she could catalog the fleeting glimpses of the emotions her question invoked: fear, anger, weariness. Resignation. It was the last that held his face, and the last that held her attention.

  “Teller.”

  He said nothing.

  “I heard you, last night.”

  The nothing was sharper; he turned away, glancing at the papers beneath his right elbow.

  “Have you slept at all?”

  “Some.” It was a grudging answer to an invasive question. Finch knew she should leave it alone, but knew, as well, that she couldn’t.

  “Teller, you haven’t had nightmares like these for longer than I can remember.”

  He stood. She thought, for a moment, that he would ask her to leave; she wasn’t sure if she would respect the request. He saved her from making that decision. “No.” His voice was hollow. “I’ve never had nightmares like these. Not after my mother died. Not in the Henden of 410. Not even after The Terafin’s death.” He ran both hands through limp hair as he bowed his head.

  He glanced, once again, at the papers on his desk, and Finch frowned.

  “When we went to Avantari, we were taken to a room in the basement of the palace.”

  “Dungeons?” she asked, half grinning.

  “Not when we arrived. I think—I think in the end dungeons would be preferable.” He glanced up again. “The rooms in question either did not exist before the first day of The Terafin’s funeral, or existed in an entirely different form. Jay hasn’t talked much about this.”

  “And you didn’t feel you could.”

  “I can talk about the rooms,” he replied. “Although I shouldn’t talk about them here.”

  “The room isn’t secure enough.”

  He raised a brow, an expression he’d borrowed, over the past decade, from Barston. “This room is secure enough, now. Barston’s been pushing me—gently—toward the suite normally occupied by the right-kin.”

  “You don’t want to move.”

  “No. I’m not The Terafin; I have the luxury of refusal.” Jay had refused for two months. “You’ve been in the library.”

  It sounded like a change of subject. “Yes.”

  It wasn’t. “The room in the basement reminded me of the library. It wasn’t open; there was no sky. But in every other way it felt ancient, wild. It felt like the work of Artisans; nothing about it was sane.” He smiled; it aged him. “I felt like I’d stepped out of my world.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. When we first arrived at the doorstep of the manse, I had stepped outside of our world. It was intimidating. But—it was only a part of our world I hadn’t learned yet.

  “The room, the library, the grounds—they’re not part of my world. The only part of them I understand is Jay.”

  Finch exhaled and closed her eyes, listening to the cadence of Teller’s voice.

  “And they’re part of her now. I’m trying to understand them because they’re part of her.”

  She opened her eyes when he fell silent.

  “Do you see it differently?” Tell me I’m wrong.

  She couldn’t. She didn’t even try. “We’ve managed to accept anything we’ve had to accept,” she said. “We can manage this.”

  He shook his head. “The Oracle paid us a visit while we were there.”

  “The Oracle?”

  “The Oracle. Firstborn. Ancient. She was part of the carvings along the wall—until she wasn’t. She stepped out of it, made of stone. And she held a seer’s crystal in her hands.” He swallowed. Finch waited. “She offered a glimpse of the future to Jay—and Jay refused it. I don’t think she trusts the Oracle.”

  “Did you?”

  “I don’t think my trust matters one way or the other. What Jay wouldn’t accept, she offered the Kings. The Kings agreed to look.”

  “They didn’t speak of what they saw.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No.” He raised his chin, his lips almost white. “But I asked. I asked her to show me what the Kings had seen.”

  Finch whispered his name, her hands signing in silence.

  “I saw a god,” he whispered. “I saw the Kialli. I saw creatures I’ve never seen. I was standing in the streets of a city—but it wasn’t this one. Not as it is now. I could see walls in the di
stance.” He closed his eyes. “I could see the dead in the streets; the dead and the dying. I could see Jay,” he whispered. “She was bleeding, injured; her eyes were wild.” He fell silent again.

  “She was alone?”

  He laughed. “No. No, she wasn’t alone.”

  She’d asked the wrong question. In silence she rose and came to stand before Teller; after a brief hesitation, she put her arms around his neck and shoulders. “Were we with her?”

  She felt him shake his head. “No. We were at a distance, and we were holding—between us—the banner of House Terafin. The Chosen were set to guard it, not her.”

  “Were any of us with her?”

  “Only one. Only one of us. But—”

  “But?”

  “His hair. His hair was down.” He tightened his grip briefly. “If these are Jay’s dreams, I don’t want them. I’ll be grateful for their lack for the rest of my life.”

  “They seem clearer than Jay’s dreams, to me.”

  “There was more.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You understand what at least part of the vision must mean.” She pulled away. “I need to talk to you about Jarven ATerafin.”

  “Finch—”

  “And I need to tell you about my day in the Merchant Authority. It’s not the stuff of dream or nightmare—not the ones you’ve been having. But it’s not going to make you happy.”

  13th of Fabril, 428 A.A. Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Finch woke and dressed early, with the help of a maid. She missed Ellerson. They all missed Ellerson. But the domicis had not returned. Nor had the two cats and the Winter King. While they were absent, there was hope—but hope was a special kind of pain.

  She left her rooms and entered the breakfast nook; to her surprise it was empty of all save one man: Haval. He was seated along the bench against the wall. He had not, from the look of the table, come to eat.

  “ATerafin,” he said, rising as she entered the room. He bowed.

  “Haval?” She glanced around for a glimpse of Jay; the room was otherwise empty.

  “I have come to speak with you, if you have a few moments.”

  She frowned as breakfast arrived. “Do you mind if I eat while we speak?”

  “I do not wish to deprive you of your meal,” he replied, “but the conversation is of a more personal nature.”

  This deepened Finch’s frown. Haval was Jay’s adviser, but in all other ways he chose to be near invisible while within the West Wing.

  “How is Hannerle?” she asked.

  “She is sleeping.” He said it in exactly the wrong tone of voice.

  Finch, never particularly hungry in the mornings, felt the desire for food desert her completely. “It was my understanding,” she said, choosing her words with care, “that the sleepers had all awakened.”

  “That was my understanding as well. It is true of the sleepers who convalesced within the Houses of Healing.”

  “Is Adam present?”

  “He is, to the best of my knowledge, asleep.” Haval lifted a hand. “And it is not my intent to wake him to demand answers. The questions to which I now require answers, I will ask of The Terafin directly.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Eat. Eat, and then come to the fitting rooms, where we are less likely to suffer interruption.”

  * * *

  Breakfast was a quick affair, and Finch left the table feeling every bite as a weight in her stomach. It had not occurred to her that Hannerle might not waken; the others had. Haval did not seem unduly angry, but that told Finch nothing. She liked the tailor, but on occasion he made her uneasy.

  This morning was to be no exception. She knocked at the door, and was given leave to enter; the room was, as were most spaces in which Haval worked, a mess in progress. She could see both floor and carpet, but it was broken in many places by the various tools and materials of his trade.

  “Late yesterday afternoon, bolts of fabric were delivered to the West Wing; the men who delivered them claimed that I had ordered them. I admit that I am not a man in the prime of youth, but I cannot for the life of me remember placing such an order. They are against the wall,” he added. It was necessary; they were not the only bolts of cloth present.

  She considered her next words with care. “Jarven ATerafin sent them.”

  One gray brow rose. “Indeed. I am to assume that he meant them for your clothing?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. We had a bit of an accident in the office yesterday, and as I don’t generally sleep in the Merchant Authority, I was forced to wear a tea-stained dress for the duration of the day.”

  Haval nodded, as if tea stains were a daily—and trivial—event. “Jarven, one assumes, chose the cloth.”

  She eyed the cloth with a great deal more suspicion. “Yes. My apologies, Haval. I am not a clothier of any great note, and while textiles are of course part of Terafin’s trade, they are not under my direct supervision. What is significant about these bolts of cloth? They do not seem exceptional in color; the dyes seem bright, but otherwise ordinary, at least in this light.”

  “Jarven did not inform you.”

  “No.”

  “Then I should not. But I will say this: there is no other cloth that would have a fraction of the worth of the cloth he did choose. I quibble only at his source—a source of which you remain in ignorance.”

  She approached the bolts, her brow furrowed. They were not, at first glance, a rough cloth, or even a practical one; they were not, for instance, the fine linen out of which so much of her clothing had been made. “They are silk,” she said.

  “They are silk. They are of a composition found only within the Royal Courts, and even then, only on strict social occasions.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, ATerafin. What did Jarven tell you?”

  “He said simply that he was sending bolts of cloth to me. I was to inform my tailor of a need for new dresses, at least one of which would remain within the Merchant Authority offices against future accidents.”

  Haval’s expression shifted, closing like a snapped fan. What was left was a certain brightness of the eye. “Please, ATerafin, take a seat. That one; you can remove the cloth across the chair without causing any significant damage.”

  “I am not certain I would not prefer to remain standing.”

  “Very well. Unless your measurements have changed significantly in the last two months, I do not require your cooperation in the mechanics of making such dresses. I require, perhaps, some input into the design.”

  “You’ve never required such input before.”

  “Have I not?”

  “No. You’ve always chosen the designs, with Hannerle’s guidance. You are aware that we are not fully cognizant of the hidden barbs presented by fashion.”

  “Cloth such as this is not subject to the simple dictates of fashion,” he replied. “And indeed, there are very, very few tailors who are capable of working with it at all.”

  Finch stared at the cloth as Haval’s words sunk in. “And if I ask how Jarven knew you would be one of those few?”

  “I have not yet admitted that I am.”

  She met, and held, his gaze. “If you do not admit that you are, there is very little point in continuing this conversation. I am expected in the Authority offices this morning, and I cannot afford to be too late.”

  “I believe Jarven will expect some delay.”

  “It is not Jarven who concerns me. I do not understand your previous relationship, Haval, nor is it required.”

  “I wish you to tell me what occurred in the Authority offices yesterday afternoon.”

  “You could ask Jarven.”

  “I could, but I wish a reasonable answer in a reasonable length of time.”

  “I believe he would give you both, given your suspicions about his choice of fabric. He could hardly do otherwise.”

  “And you claim to have known Jarven for half your life? He has clearly mellowed
.”

  She smiled; the expression was a merchant expression that did not reach her eyes. “Tell me about this fabric. You said it was silk?” As she spoke, she reached out to touch a fold of creased cloth. It was not, to touch, remarkable.

  “Yes.”

  It was a heavier silk, washed and smoothed into a reflective, burgundy sheen. The color was appropriate for her Authority work. She looked up to meet his gaze. Jay trusted this man. Finch had always liked him, but she had been aware that his past was not entirely what one would expect of a tailor. She liked Hannerle without reservation—but Hannerle was not Haval.

  And yet, Haval was here, and Jay listened to him. She turned once again to the bolts of cloth. Inspecting them, she said, “As you surmise, the cloth was meant for my use. Jarven must have known the conclusions you would draw upon its receipt; he did not, however, think to give me fair warning.”

  “A failing of his, I assure you.” There was a dry humor at the bottom of those words. “He could not have come by this cloth on short notice.”

  “It was very short notice,” she replied. The brown silk was dark enough it was striking, not drab. “I assumed it the work of an afternoon—less, in fact. I think he was out of the office for under an hour.”

  “And the accident in the Merchant Authority?”

  “I did, indeed, spill tea all over my lap, during a significant appointment with a merchant of some import. It was embarrassing.”

  “Was it deliberate?”

  She exhaled. “No. Had I realized that some part of our regular tea was poisoned, I would have taken care to ensure that the cup in my hand did not shatter.” Sliding her hands behind her back she turned to face him. “Is the cloth proof against stains?”

  “It is. It is proof against water, alcohol, and simple dirt. It is not for that reason that it is prized, of course; that is merely a beneficial side effect. The cloth cannot be worked with normal thread, normal needles; it cannot be cut with normal shears or scissors.”

  “Can it be cut at all?”

  “Yes.”

  Finch bent, picked up a small pair of scissors, and drew the lower blade swiftly across the brown fabric. It failed to mark the cloth at all. Frowning, she removed the small knife she habitually wore secreted in her skirts; she knew the knife was sharp. Haval said nothing as she attempted to slice through the cloth. She failed.