Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  One of the few differences between the rooms of these two men was the weaponry. Jester had daggers. Angel had those, but also owned a short sword, a long sword, and an ax that had seen better decades, in Haval’s opinion. Given the expression on Andrei’s face, he concurred.

  It was not, therefore, any of these weapons that drew his attention; it was the pole arm that rested against the wall beyond the clean—and clearly unused—writing desk. Haval noted it immediately; he generally noted everything in a room immediately. Andrei came to it a few minutes later.

  But Andrei’s eyes widened; his lips parted. No words escaped and as Haval moved to better see his expression, he realized no words would. He had never seen Andrei so discomfited; the Araven servant could not take his eyes off the weapon.

  “Haval—where did this come from? It was not in the Terafin armories.”

  Haval did not reply.

  Andrei hesitated before he inhaled and found his customary poise. He approached the weapon, reached for its haft, and stopped. “Haval.”

  “You recognize this weapon?”

  “Why is it here?” He spoke almost to himself.

  “Andrei. The weapon?”

  The servant turned. “Do you know where this weapon was obtained?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrei’s brows rose. “You had something to do with its acquisition?”

  “I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I know where it came from because I heard its owner—its current owner—discussing the fight in which it was blooded. Is it dangerous?”

  “It is lost, Haval. You are not concerned because you do not understand what this weapon is.”

  “I am now concerned,” was the mild reply, “because you apparently do.”

  “It cannot be what it appears to be. It cannot.”

  “It appears to be a bladed spear to my eyes.”

  Andrei reached out and gripped the haft. He released it almost instantly. The smell of burning flesh slowly permeated the otherwise still environs of Angel’s room. The servant did not speak for a long moment.

  “It is protected.”

  “Yes.” Andrei glanced at his hand. “The burn is not serious; it is merely a reminder. Did The Terafin give him this weapon?”

  “He chose it; he needed a weapon with reach.”

  “I will speak with The Terafin.”

  Haval stepped between Andrei and the door. “Do not assume she is an enemy, old friend.”

  Andrei lifted one brow. “I make no assumptions. But this is the most unwelcome news I have received in over a decade. I would ask Hectore to withdraw if I thought he would listen.”

  At that, Haval chuckled. He was alarmed by the servant’s reaction, but felt no need to share. “There is very little chance of that. If you wish to force him to abandon The Terafin and her stray ducks, you would best be served by hiding the entirety of your concern.”

  Andrei shook his head. “You do not understand Hectore.”

  It was slightly insulting, but Haval accepted it. He did not entirely understand Andrei; Andrei’s master was not difficult.

  * * *

  “We are not yet done, Andrei. There are two other suites I would like you to examine.”

  All of the obvious frustration had drained from the Araven servant, leaving a remote and silent man in its place. Haval preferred the irritation; he knew, in Andrei’s case, it was genuine.

  “You may, of course, bill The Terafin for your time.”

  Andrei’s eyes narrowed. “The suites, Haval. Hectore is no doubt giving away half of his fortune and all of his secrets in my absence.”

  Haval chuckled. He led him to the room Adam and Ariel shared, and knocked on the door. “This room is currently occupied.”

  The door opened and Adam peered into the hallway. He recognized Haval, which Haval expected; he recognized Andrei, which he had not.

  “My pardon, Adam,” Haval said, dispensing with the need for secrecy. “We wish to search your rooms. We will touch and take nothing without your knowledge.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Haval,” Adam replied, opening the door to allow the two men entry into his rooms. “And Andrei.”

  Ariel was seated beside the great gray cat on the floor; she was leaning into his side. Shadow did not therefore move. “Why are you here?”

  “We are looking for traces of magic,” Haval replied.

  “Why?”

  “There are, of course, enchantments throughout the manse—and throughout the Wing; these are expected. There exists the possibility of less acceptable enchantments, and we wish to ascertain that there are none.”

  The cat glanced at Andrei. A low growl started in the back of his throat; Andrei did not appear to hear it.

  “He is here with The Terafin’s permission. If you have concerns, Shadow, you must speak with The Terafin. She will not be pleased if you injure Patris Araven’s servant.”

  The cat hissed. To Adam, he said, “Go and tell her we don’t want him here.”

  It was the second surprise of a long day. Haval weighed both with care. “What is the nature of your concern?” he asked the cat. Adam had made no move to leave the room. “You were not notably fond of Adam when you first arrived, but The Terafin accepts both his presence and his aid.”

  Shadow’s hiss extended for several beats. He said, to Adam, “Touch him.”

  Adam’s brows rose and fell. In Torra, he said, “I can’t just touch him. He’s a guest. If he were dangerous, the Matriarch would know.”

  “She is stupid,” the cat said—in perfectly audible Weston. He growled and added, “So are you.”

  Throughout this exchange, Andrei attended to the room. Like Jester’s and Angel’s, it was sparsely furnished; unlike Jester’s and Angel’s, its closets were neatly divided and contained no clothing of exceptional worth or note.

  “Shadow,” Haval said, “this is not the first time you have seen Andrei.”

  The cat hissed. “We don’t want him here. If she needs him, she can talk to him upstairs.”

  “I will impart your message,” Haval replied gravely. A glance at Andrei made clear that he did not care for the cat—which, given the cat’s manners was expected—and that the room passed muster.

  * * *

  The last room they entered was Hannerle’s.

  “If you speak of this to any save your master,” Haval began.

  “There is no need to threaten me. I understand the danger.” Andrei glanced at Haval, and added, “unless, of course, the threat comforts you.”

  Haval took the chair beside his wife’s bed. He had been from her side for several hours. There was water here, and a stack of towels that were clean; he began to tend to his wife while Andrei examined the rooms. There were two; Hannerle’s merited a brief inspection, no more. It was the expected result. Haval therefore showed none of the relief he felt; in truth, the relief was embarrassing.

  It faded when Andrei failed to emerge from the sitting room. Haval spoke softly to his wife as he continued to drip water between her closed lips; he watched as she swallowed. Then he set the towel aside. He should have asked Adam to sit with her, but he was still concerned about Shadow’s reaction.

  Andrei stood in front of a paneled wall. The seam of the hidden door was clearly visible to anyone who looked with care.

  “The servant’s entrance is of concern to you?”

  “This one is. The others were not.” He frowned. “I have always disliked the idea that servants are to be invisible in precisely this fashion. The entire manse is no doubt riddled with narrow back halls—all of which cannot be guarded.”

  Haval inclined his head. “It is a problem faced in Avantari, as well. Thus far, the Kings have failed to be assassinated by their servants—or those who attempt to infiltrate their ranks. They have also notably failed to die when assassins have attempted to utilize those corridors.”

  “Thank you,” was the unappreciative response. “I assume your career as a tailor means you no l
onger play in those corridors.”

  “I never played in those corridors, Andrei. You are concerned, one assumes, for reasons that are not obvious to anyone who pauses to think for half a second?”

  “I am. The woman in this room is your wife, is she not?”

  “She is.”

  “Were she mine, I would have her moved.”

  Haval offered no argument. “Do you consider the danger theoretical?”

  “All danger before the fact is theoretical. If you intend to involve yourself in Terafin affairs, be concerned, Haval.”

  “I am now concerned. What do you fear?”

  “Let us return to Hectore. I wish to ask The Terafin for permission to open this door.”

  Haval did not point out that permission had not been necessary on any other occasion. “The right-kin’s books.”

  “Those as well.”

  * * *

  Hectore, Jewel decided, would be amused and jovial on a battlefield. His momentary discomfiture upon hearing that Haval was in residence in the Wing might have been a trick of a tired imagination; he greeted Haval as if he were an acquaintance of long-standing. His was one of the richest merchant houses on the Isle, and he was a powerful member of the Merchants’ Guild. Yet he did not cleave to the social distinctions that both Avandar and Ellerson so prized; not for Hectore the invisible, nameless servant.

  “Andrei?”

  Andrei, thus named, seemed to favor Ellerson’s school of thought: he winced when Hectore addressed him. Having been thus addressed, however, he could not slide into the comfortable anonymity of a servant. Jewel felt a twinge of sympathy for him; she knew the feeling well. Of course, in her case, she had desired the Terafin title—a position that all but guaranteed lack of anonymity.

  He turned to Jewel and offered her a deep, graceful bow. Nor did he rise until she had bidden him do so. “Terafin.”

  “Within these rooms, we seldom stand on ceremony,” she began.

  Avandar cleared his throat. Loudly.

  Andrei bowed in turn to Teller. “ATerafin.”

  “Andrei,” Hectore said, with more than a touch of impatience. “What, exactly, have you found?”

  “I require your permission—and the aid of either your House Mage or your domicis—to remove three books from the right-kin’s personal collection. I have—without permission, removed two items from the rooms of Finch ATerafin; I do not intend to keep them or destroy them, but if I have overstepped the bounds of the examination, I will return them immediately to your keeping.”

  Jewel felt a twinge of unease. She had been off-balance for all of the day, with the possible exception of the last half hour in the meeting of The Ten. She had no vision to guide her—not in this. Never in this. She resented her talent deeply on those occasions when ignorance was a danger.

  It was a danger now.

  “I also feel that the entirety of the desk in the right-kin’s personal rooms requires replacement. I will—with your permission—arrange for the replacement. In size and shape, the desk will be roughly similar. In function, there will be no notable difference.”

  Teller opened his mouth and shut it again, because Haval lifted his hand and signed. It was den-sign. It was wrong. It was a language that did not belong in the hands of men who had not lived—and lost—in the streets of holdings so poor life was often a matter of staving off death for as long as one possibly could.

  Ellerson, Jewel knew, could read den-sign. But his great dignity and his pride in his role as servant had prevented him from speaking in the silent tongue.

  Haval seldom angered Jewel. He made her uneasy, he made her feel stupid, he made her feel insignificant and sometimes incompetent. But anger? No. She was surprised, then, to feel angry now.

  But she said—and did—nothing, although the desire to lift her own hands and pointedly offer her opinion in den-sign was searing, it was so strong.

  “That will, of course, be acceptable,” Teller was saying. “I am less sanguine about the fate of my books, and I require some explanation before I will part with them.”

  “You are aware—perhaps more so than any other member of your House—of the enchantments that can be placed on books.”

  Teller nodded.

  “Three of the volumes upon your somewhat cluttered and untidy shelves—”

  “You will forgive him,” Haval interjected. “He has always been an overly fastidious man.”

  “—are enchanted. They are not enchanted in a similar fashion to the books in the right-kin’s office.” Before Teller could speak, he added, “You have three volumes of your own that are similar. You have two bookends at the height of your writing desk that could have come from the right-kin’s office; I assume, in fact, that they did.

  “The three that I speak of are not those.”

  “Can you—can you neutralize the enchantments without destroying or removing the books?” Teller asked.

  “Not with any certainty of safety, no.”

  Jewel glanced at Teller. He loved his books. It was his one expensive indulgence. Many of the volumes in his possession had been gifts from Gabriel; two had come from Barston. Some, he had chosen for himself. “May we accompany you?” she asked Andrei.

  “Of course. It would be instructive to know how these volumes were acquired. There is one other difficulty,” he added.

  Jewel tensed.

  “The servants’ halls are, of course, threaded throughout the manse. It is not optimal, in my opinion, but it is certainly expected. One entry—or exit—requires somewhat more extensive attention.”

  “Is the room occupied?”

  “Yes. I have not taken the liberty of examining the unoccupied rooms yet.”

  * * *

  Teller’s rooms were large compared to the rooms in which the den had lived for the first few years of its existence. They were large compared to some of the smaller quarters in the manse, although they were quite modest in comparison with the rooms that were his by right of his position on the House Council. They felt crowded, now. Hectore did not insist on remaining in the great room, and Haval did not insist upon retreating; both men, along with Jewel, Teller, and two of the Chosen, now entered his rooms behind Avandar and Andrei.

  Andrei indicated three books. Two of them had titles that all but guaranteed sleep, in Jewel’s silent opinion: one was a treatise about textiles and their history, the other about . . . plants. The third, however, was not written in modern Weston. She frowned as she looked at the faded, creased spine.

  “Teller—where did you get this book?” She lifted a hand to reach for it; Avandar caught her wrist. His movement was so swift, so sudden, and so unexpected that she hadn’t seen its start. Its finish, however, would leave bruises.

  “You see it,” Andrei said softly.

  “ATerafin,” Avandar said, ignoring the Araven servant, “it would be best if you could answer that question.”

  Teller frowned. “It came into my hands through a contact in the Common. Several of the older volumes came into my hands through the same contact; I believe he deals in antiquities.”

  “His name?”

  “Avram. Of Avram’s Society of Averalaan Historians.”

  Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture of frustration so similar to the one Haval usually used, Jewel wanted to laugh. “His name is not Avram. He offered this to you?”

  “Yes. He said he had offered it to the magi in the Order of Knowledge, but they were unwilling to meet his price. I assumed that the magi considered it pointless or inaccurate.”

  “That is not,” Avandar said, “a safe assumption.” To Andrei, he added, “I am not familiar with the name.”

  “Of the man or the establishment?”

  “Either.”

  “The establishment is a storefront in the Common. It houses antiques for those with more pretension than knowledge. On very rare occasions, its proprietor has something of worth cross his counter—but it is, I assure you, accidental on his part.”
>
  “And this volume?”

  “I will pay a visit to him on the morrow.”

  “Is it Old Weston?” Jewel asked. Avandar, let go of my wrist. You are embarrassing me in public.

  As you say.

  Teller’s handled this book, and he is obviously alive and unharmed.

  From which we may assume that he is singularly fortunate.

  Avandar, what do you sense? What do you think this book is meant to do?

  He didn’t answer. “Andrei, how old do you think this book is? I have never been much of a scholar, and books—even those considered forbidden—were not a threat in my youth.”

  “Not even in your youth?” the Araven servant asked.

  Jewel felt Avandar stiffen. “No.”

  “It is my suspicion that you will recognize some part of this enchantment. The Order of Knowledge could not, combined, create such a book as this.”

  Hectore was watching his servant with narrowed eyes. The look was frank and assessing; it was not accompanied by words.

  “Is it sentient?” Avandar asked.

  “Were it, I think its effects would now be known—but I cannot be certain. ATerafin, when did this particular volume come into your possession?”

  “Six weeks ago. I have handled it,” he continued. “I have even taken some notes about the use of language. I am, at best, an indifferent scholar; I have the curiosity, but not the leisure to devote to ancient tongues.”

  “And yet this book was offered to you.”

  “It was offered, yes. The proprietor of Avram’s is aware only of my interest in books; many of his clients who profess such an interest don’t quibble about simple things like language.”

  Six weeks. Six weeks, Jewel thought. “After I took the House.”

  “After your acclamation as Terafin, yes. You understand the significance.”

  She nodded. “Avandar, why do you feel the book is of significance? Andrei wished to have Teller’s desk removed, and you didn’t blink an eye.”