Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “Does it prevent stabbing?”

  “No. The cloth will not tear, but the blunt damage will occur regardless.”

  “Does it provide protection against magic?”

  “It does. It does not provide any protection against poison. But it is armor, of a kind, against specific types of attacks. It will not preserve your life for long if you are isolated and you face an expert foe—but many assassinations are achieved in seconds. Jewel is The Terafin, and she does not own one such dress.”

  “She’s—”

  “Nor did the previous Terafin.”

  “Can you be certain of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just how expensive is this cloth?”

  “It is all but priceless,” Haval replied. “But, as I have said, having the cloth will not guarantee its use. It would not surprise me if these bolts are quite old.”

  They did not look particularly old to Finch; if they were, they’d been stored in reasonable environs, not damp ones. She shook her head. Given the properties Haval attributed to this silk, it probably wouldn’t matter.

  “You needn’t waste them on me,” she told him politely. “I have survived my years in Terafin—and a few tense years before them—in cloth meant for the merely mortal. Yesterday, I managed to stain my skirts; I took no other lasting or significant damage.”

  He did not relax. He watched.

  “Haval, if you are concerned about my welfare—”

  “I was not, before these arrived. I am now concerned in a multitude of ways. Had Jarven chosen to back Jewel ATerafin’s bid in its entirety—and from the start—I would not have been as surprised to see them. He is prone to extravagant gesture when the mood strikes him. But he did not. Jewel was acclaimed Terafin. You have served her for your entire tenure as ATerafin, and I did not imagine that you would make any move—political or otherwise—against her.”

  Finch’s brows rose as the words—and the implication—became clear. Her left hand curled in a fist; the right still held the knife that she had drawn to attempt to cut cloth. She left it by her side, although it was shaking. “If you imagine that I am doing so now,” she finally said, “you do not understand what I want for either The Terafin or her House.” She spoke with a quiet, searing dignity.

  He watched for a full minute, during which she met and held his gaze. “I believe,” he said, voice soft, “that I will have to speak with Jarven after all. If you do not mind arriving at the Merchant Authority on the late side, I will join you there. I have some tools to retrieve from my sadly neglected storefront.” He tendered her a brief bow.

  Finch, still angry, did not offer a similar courtesy in response.

  “I meant no disrespect,” he said, as he rose.

  “I fail to see how you could mean anything else.”

  “Then you are still far too naive to be put into play in this unexpected fashion.”

  * * *

  Finch arrived at the Merchant Authority on time and unescorted. Lucille was behind her desk as Finch opened the door; her eyes instantly narrowed. Finch glanced over her shoulder to see who might be following her into the office; the hall was, aside from the two House Guards who stood to either side of the doors, empty.

  She approached the desk, and Lucille handed her a small stack of papers, on top of which was a sealed letter. The seal was of House Araven. It was also unbroken.

  “Is Jarven in?”

  “He is. He was here before I arrived.”

  That was unusual. Jarven often worked late, but did not particularly care for mornings, especially the ones that started early.

  “He was expecting you half an hour ago,” Lucille added.

  “I suppose you pointed out that this is the time I’m normally expected?”

  “I did.”

  Finch sighed. “I’m sorry—that was a rather dense question. Does he have an appointment now?”

  “No.”

  She made her way to Jarven’s closed doors immediately, and knocked before she entered. Lucille was not the only person in the office who knocked to give warning, rather than to ask permission. Jarven was seated behind his desk.

  She immediately joined him, taking the chair to the right of the desk. “I didn’t realize you would be here this early.”

  “Clearly. You were otherwise occupied?”

  “With breakfast and an extremely suspicious tailor.”

  At that, he smiled. “Ah. I see you spoke with Haval.”

  “It may have escaped your attention, but he maintains an unofficial residence in the West Wing. And he feels that the bolts of cloth you so cavalierly sent were a sign of . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I will let him explain it himself.”

  “Finch, please.”

  “He had business to attend to at his store, but said he would come here after. If you wish to avoid him, you will probably have to either tell Lucille to send him on his way, or leave for an urgent appointment.”

  “I would,” Jarven said, “but the cloth is rather pointless without his aid. Was he difficult?”

  “He felt that gifting the cloth to me implied a desire on my part to replace The Terafin.”

  Jarven laughed. He was genuinely amused—and genuinely delighted. Finch felt the urge to strangle him, and allowed it to pass. This was not the first time Jarven would frustrate her; nor was it likely to be the last. “You do not seem pleased by the ridiculousness of it all.”

  “I was—and am—not. I found it insulting.”

  “It is so very seldom that Haval missteps, my dear; you must learn to appreciate it when it happens. He does not take kindly to reminders of his fallibility, and you will be able to rub his nose in it at your pleasure.”

  Her lips thinned as he laughed again. “Honestly, Jarven.”

  “He is fond of the girl.”

  “He is fond of The Terafin.”

  “Yes, yes. It amuses me, Finch. Surely you don’t begrudge that? I have had a miserable week.”

  “Prior to yesterday.”

  “Indeed, indeed.”

  “You could try to be a little more circumspect, Jarven. Lucille is not pleased.”

  “Ah. She is no doubt ill-pleased because you arrived at the office without House Guards in tow.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It will come as no surprise to you that Lucille takes the events of yesterday very poorly. There is some threat to your life; anyone rational who had access to House Guards—and you do, as a House Council member—would of course avail herself of their protection.”

  Finch folded arms across her chest. “That didn’t save The Terafin.”

  “No, my dear, it did not; I was at pains to point this out to my worthy secretary; she was not amused.” Jarven clearly was.

  “You are capable of acting somber and serious when it suits you, Jarven. Could you not try, for Lucille’s sake?”

  “No.” His smile faded. “It gives her a safe outlet for the fury she is otherwise feeling. Our Lucille does not like to feel helpless. In that, I believe she is very much like your Jewel.”

  “The Terafin.” She exhaled. “Tell me where you acquired the cloth you sent to Haval.”

  Jarven opened a ledger and began to flip through its pages, pausing once or twice to make notations.

  Finch cleared her throat, and he looked up. “Yes?”

  “You wanted to speak with me.”

  “I did. But as you have set Haval on me, I will wait until he arrives; anything of relevance to you will no doubt be subject to his scrutiny, and I do not wish to expire of the boredom of repetition. You can make that face if you like, Finch; it is clearly much easier for you to alleviate your own boredom. I, however, am considered old and of little interest; I wield some power, but in the eyes of the patriciate, it is a fading power, soon to be removed by the expedience of my death—from a boring, fretful old age, no less.

  “I am in want of tea,” he added.

  Finch nodded stiffly and went to fetch it. She
had no doubt, at this point, that tea was safe. Doubt or no, when she made up the tray, she used the finer dishes. Without Lucille’s aid, she returned to the office quickly.

  She found Haval in the outer office. He rose as she emerged from the long back room, tray in hand, and he tendered her a perfect bow. He was dressed, head to toe, as a merchant of some standing, his jacket a blue of fine velvet, his shirt cuffs edged in tasteful frills. It was a far cry from the practical apron and somewhat dingier clothing in which he normally worked.

  Lucille did not seem overjoyed to see him, but she clearly didn’t consider him a threat; she took no pains to contain her pinched expression. Haval crossed the room as Finch approached Jarven’s closed doors.

  “If I may?” he asked.

  Finch nodded. Haval opened the doors. They stood framed by them as Jarven looked up from his desk. His version of work, at the moment, was a careful study of his hands; there were no longer any open books or ledgers anywhere.

  Finch preceded Haval into the room, and set the tea tray on Jarven’s desk. He glanced at the side table; she ignored it.

  “Please,” Jarven said, his voice smooth as fine glass. “Be seated.” He spoke, of course, to Haval. Haval inclined his head, his face shuttered and expressionless. He did, however, take one of the chairs Jarven indicated. Finch poured three cups of tea. Haval had not arrived with a servant, as Hectore had on the previous day. He did not refuse the tea she offered; he did refuse cream, sugar, or honey. Jarven did not.

  Finch had brought biscuits. She’d chosen the same biscuits as she’d chosen on the day Hectore had come to visit. She felt no hunger at all, but as she carried the decorative plate to Haval, and then to Jarven, she smiled. She took one biscuit, as she had done the day before. Jarven took two. Haval glanced at the tray and politely declined.

  And there they sat, two silent old men. Jarven did not effect his usual avuncular dotage; Haval did not affect his usual servant’s invisibility. Although neither man spoke, they met and held the other’s gaze; they were fencing in silence.

  Finch considered dropping a cup to see if it caught either man’s attention. She understood that they shared a past, and from this posturing, inferred that they had been equals. But Haval made clothing for a living; Jarven ruled the Terafin concerns in the Merchant Authority.

  “Haval,” she said pleasantly, when it became clear he would not be the first to speak, “Are you acquainted with Patris Araven?”

  The clothier raised a brow. “I am.”

  “Have your dealings in the past been pleasant?”

  “They have been few. Is this question relevant?”

  “Only if you wish to avoid him. While you and Jarven attempt to outstare each other, he is no doubt making his way to the Terafin Authority offices. The room is clearly large enough to accommodate him; I am not certain the discussion the two of you wish to have will be.”

  Jarven chuckled.

  Haval, notably, did not.

  “If you would prefer it, I will withdraw.”

  Haval was silent. Jarven, however, frowned. “You are at the heart of this discussion, Finch.”

  “There has been no discussion,” Finch replied sweetly. “And on occasion the person who is at the heart of the discussion inhibits discussion by her presence.”

  “You are in the lair of two decided dragons, Finch,” he replied, his smile broadening. “Where we choose to speak, believe that we will not be inhibited.”

  “That, of course,” Haval said, almost grudgingly, “is her fear. No, Finch. Jarven is correct. You are not your leader. You will inhibit us only if you choose to do so, and I believe you will do so tactically, if at all. You understand why we are here.”

  Finch took a chair. Jarven and Haval had confidence in her—and it was, of course, a confidence she did not share. She wanted to have this discussion in her own Wing, with Teller at the table. But she could not, without also having Jay. Teller would not speak if Jay was present—and it was likely that Finch, to spare them both, would also be reticent.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, lifting the cup to her lips. “I do.”

  “Very well.” Haval exhaled and looked directly at Jarven. “Why have you chosen Finch?”

  “Why not?” Jarven was enjoying himself, and took no pains to hide it. “Answer carefully, Haval. She has been under my wing for the whole of her tenure as ATerafin. She understands the Merchant Authority—and the merchants who plague it—better than anyone here, save perhaps myself.”

  “Lucille knows—”

  “No, Finch, she does not. She knows this office. No one—not even I—understand its workings so completely. But she looks no farther than this office, and she never has. She has depended upon me to see the enemies at the gate; she has assumed that I will head them off before they trouble her domain.”

  “She is not a fool,” Haval said.

  “No. But she has come to depend on me.”

  “And Finch has not?”

  Jarven glanced at her. “Your manners, Haval, are lacking. Finch is here; you may ask her the question yourself.”

  Haval nodded, but did not repeat the question.

  “I depend, to a certain extent, on Jarven,” Finch replied, as if he had. “But what Jarven sees is not always what I see. In the early years, the differences denoted a lack of experience on my part. I have had sixteen years in this office since then.”

  “And the differences now?”

  “Are more subtle. There are merchants who are willing to negotiate with me, where they would not negotiate with Jarven.” She lifted a hand. “I do not mean they will not speak with him; they will, of course. But they will not move, at all.”

  “And you have coaxed them into a flexibility Jarven cannot?”

  “I rarely threaten them,” she replied. “Jarven, for his own reasons, does. Perhaps he plays the foil, and they come to me because I offer respect instead. But he will not always be here, and I will. What Jarven does, I cannot do. I have never considered it wise to make the attempt. I depend on Jarven,” she continued, “but I do not fully trust him.”

  Haval was still for a long beat. He offered her his first smile since entering this office. “Jewel does not.”

  “No. But if she worked at his side as I have done, she would.” Finch paused, considering her words with care. “She trusts you.”

  Jarven laughed.

  “She has reason to trust me.” Haval said.

  “I have reason to trust Jarven,” Finch replied pleasantly, her tone implying agreement without actually ceding any. “And, Haval, I have reason to trust you. If you feel that I am suspicious, accept it as your due: with the single exception of my den, I trust no one of any power completely.”

  “Not even the former Terafin?” He did not, as he so often did, decry any possibility of power by pointing out that he was a simple maker of dresses.

  “The dead have no need of trust.”

  “The living require some, Finch. It must be clear to you now—”

  “That you don’t trust me? Yes. It is. I’m uncertain as to whether the greater part of your suspicion is due to Jarven’s interest.”

  He nodded, but felt no need to enlighten her. He was, however, watching her with care; Jarven, still chuckling, failed to hold his attention. She had seen Haval concentrate upon beadwork with exactly the same expression. It told her nothing. But she understood that this interview, such as it was, was to be a test; it was a test that Jarven welcomed.

  Finch almost resented it. Almost. But she understood that only by passing it would she be able to help Jay, if help was required. And by passing it, she would then open herself up to all manner of testing. Assassination was, after all, a test of intent.

  Haval did not speak. Jarven fell silent; she expected the latter.

  “You don’t understand what I want,” Finch said, the statement flat and uninflected. She didn’t speak defensively. Haval was Jay’s. He was here to protect her interests, or so Finch guessed. She could not hate
him for that. She couldn’t even cling to the insult of his suspicion for much longer. “But you suspect, Haval. I didn’t think, this morning. I reacted, and I reacted poorly; I was angered by your implication.”

  “By your inference,” he replied. It was a start.

  “Perhaps. But if, as Jarven suspects, someone intends my death, I do myself no favor by allowing anger to govern my reactions.”

  He inclined his head.

  “There are things of which I cannot speak.”

  Jarven cleared his throat.

  “You have not yet been confirmed as a Councillor,” Finch said serenely.

  Haval raised a brow. “I do not consider that wise.”

  “I know. Neither, if truth be told, do I—but the risks are greater if we refuse, and I will require Jarven’s support in future.”

  “Why?”

  Finch swallowed. “She will leave us again.”

  * * *

  “Pardon?”

  “She will leave us. With luck it won’t involve the destruction of parts of the Common, this time.” She lifted a hand as Jarven cleared his throat. “She will not desert us. If she survives—as she did in the South—she will return.”

  Haval said, “Is she aware of this, Finch?”

  Finch said nothing.

  “She has not discussed this with you, then.”

  “She has discussed it with no one.”

  “And yet you seem to know her plans.”

  “I’ve known her for most of my life,” Finch replied. “Understand, Haval, that we are all apprehensive. The changes in the gardens were intimidating. The changes in—” she glanced at Jarven. “The other changes, more so. We have lost one domicis and one den member, and no one understands how.

  “We know of all of the structural changes in Avantari; the most impressive and disturbing of which are not on public display. We’re not seer-born. We don’t possess an ounce of talent between us. But we understand that something bigger than we are is happening. Beneath our feet. Outside of our walls. Within them.”

  She exhaled. “Teller believes we will lose the city—and with it, the Empire—if Jay doesn’t leave.”