Oracle: The House War: Book Six (12 page)

“And you have to?”

She spread her hands. “Don’t I? Tell me how to avoid them without ceding the House, and I’ll do it. Jarven won’t be happy—but I will, and he cares enough about me to tolerate what he calls my peculiarities.”

“He calls
you
peculiar?”

“Frequently.” She stood. “Lucille’s not happy, either.”

No, she wouldn’t be. “And she can’t talk you out of it?”

“She respects and admires Jay. She hasn’t tried. I considered letting Teller hold the House.”

Jester didn’t blanch; he had practice. His eyes narrowed as her expression settled into studied neutrality. “You didn’t consider it for long.”

“I did.”

“Seriously?”

“Teller has Barston. I have Jarven. Barston is like Lucille; he has a healthy respect for rank and authority. His pride in the office is based, in part, on that: Teller has to
be
right-kin. Jarven finds rank useful; he pulls it as often as he can get away with. He didn’t always have the rank he has now, though—and lack of rank never stood in his way. I could be Jay, I could sit in his office, and he would think of a hundred subtle ways to undermine me if it amused him.

“He lies. He lies constantly, but never to himself. It’s trained me to see the truth for myself, and to see how his lies work to his advantage—or, in the odd case, to mine. He plays on people’s kinder nature whenever it serves his purpose. But Jester—that’s taught me things as well. He’s not inherently malicious. He just privileges his amusement over other people’s outrage. I can’t control him; the best I can hope to do is be aware of his interests.

“But if he’d been Barston, I couldn’t do what I have to do. I wouldn’t know how. Teller is like me, in a lot of ways. He’s quiet. He wants to do his job, do it well, and avoid causing pain to others.”

“This is going to cause a lot of pain to others.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You haven’t told me how to keep the House without causing it.”

“I don’t even understand what you’re doing.”

She raised a brow. Finch had never been stupid. “I am bringing Ruby’s concerns to their knees for a short period of time. She’ll have to play nice in order to wind her way through the Authority. It’s possible someone else will take over the Terafin contracts with the Royal Trade Commission should she balk. Ludgar’s economic concerns are healthy, but he’s put a great deal of his support—in secret—behind Rymark.”

“Rymark offered Jay his support.”

“Because he couldn’t kill her. I don’t care what Jay wants from Rymark. I mean to remove his support within the House. With luck, I mean to damage his support outside of it. I mean to leave him with little means to pursue an agenda which isn’t Jay’s.”

“Is he going to be standing at the end of it?”

She failed to reply.

“And your demons? Your rogue mages?”

“They’re aimed at the House in Jay’s absence,” Finch replied.

“How do you know about them?”

“Hectore, indirectly. Not all of Jay’s assassins were human in origin, but much of their support in this city is. They require money, and not small amounts of it; they’ve left a trail. I can’t follow all of it on my own, but I’ve begun to see certain patterns.”

“And the attacks?”

“Terafin isn’t the only inconvenient House in the Empire,” she replied. It was a neutral reply. “And Jester—I did offer warning, where I could.”

“Which makes you suspicious.”

“It makes me human. I understand that I’ll be under some suspicion—but I’m used to that. Jarven counseled against it.”

“The warnings?”

She nodded. “For the same reason you look uneasy now. But where I could, I chose people like James Varson.”

“You expect James to go public.”

“There were other reasons for choosing James as well, yes. But I like him. I admire him. He reminds me of Teller.”

“Teller could never be as boring as Varson.”

“I’m not insisting you like him. I feel I have justifications for doing so.”

“He can take the investigation to the Kings without facing the same censure Terafin would.”

She frowned, an expression seldom on her face. “Yes. He can. Jester—you understand as well as I that there are advantageous friendships. Both the advantage
and
the friendship can be true.”

“The friendship wouldn’t exist without the advantage.”

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does.”

“No, Jester, I don’t. We meet all kinds of people, for all kinds of reasons. Some of them will never make any sense. Jay meeting me. Finding you. Lack of sense doesn’t make it any less right, and it certainly doesn’t make it any less true. We help each other. Always have. Why?”

“Family’s different.”

Finch started to speak. Stopped. “The reason James Varson is an advantage is because he’s a decent person. He was born in the seventeenth holding. He’s never had to worry where his next meal is coming from, or if there’s a meal waiting at all.

“I used to resent people like him.”

“I resent them all the time.”

“And you have that luxury.”

His brows rose; he let them. He was almost certain they’d escape his face. “Luxury?”

“Look at us,” she said. “Look at what we’re wearing. Look at what we weigh. Look at where we’re living. We weren’t born to it—and in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

She shook her head. “It matters to
us
. It doesn’t matter to most of the people who walk through those doors. It doesn’t matter to James. He can’t imagine what our early lives were like, it’s true—but we remember, and we can certainly imagine what his life was, and is. I think, had James had our lives, he would be like Teller. He’s not, but you can see the similarities if you look.”

“He’s like Barston.”

“If that were true, I’d find some way to hire him out from under the Authority’s nose, and I’d chain him to a desk for the rest of his natural life. And I didn’t come in here to talk about James.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I sent you to deliver those messages deliberately. I couldn’t use the messenger service if I wanted some idea of the reception the messages received. Messengers, even liveried, can be ignored outright; they’re treated as tradesmen or servants. You’re a member of the House, and you’ve sat—when I can corner you—on the House Council. They can’t outright dismiss you, and I doubt Ludgar would, unless you wanted him to.”

Jester was silent. He was angry, but shock did that to him. “You’ve spoken with Haval.”

She didn’t admit it, but didn’t deny it either.

“Finch.”

“Jester—” She closed her eyes. “Carver’s gone.” Opened them. “Angel’s gone. Arann is wed to the Chosen. I don’t resent that,” she added quickly, as if it were necessary. Maybe it was. “I adore Jarven; I don’t trust him. Oh, I trust him not to work against me—but I don’t trust him to view my concerns the same way I do.” She rose, at last, and began to pace. It reminded Jester of Jay. “Teller’s here. He has his hands full, but he’s here. The Chosen watch him.”

“They should be watching you,” Jester countered.

“As much as they can, they are. But Teller is right-kin and Teller has Barston. I have Jarven.”

“That shouldn’t make them feel any safer.”

“Maybe not. Torvan told me—”

“You discussed this with Torvan?”

“Some of it. Not all—but enough. Torvan doesn’t trust Jarven with much, but he trusts Jarven with my life. I do as well.” She folded arms across her chest, but didn’t resume her seat. “Torvan trusts Barston with the House—but Teller’s safety at the moment depends on all of the magical failsafes built into Gabriel’s old office. Teller has spoken with Meralonne, and one other member of the Order, but he doesn’t think in terms of survival. He understands the undercurrents that drive the House—but all of his experience has been in the office of a right-kin with an undisputed leader.”

“All of your experience in the Merchant Authority has been under the same regime.”

“You don’t know what Jarven’s like when he’s bored. The Merchant Authority is a vast game to him, but sometimes he likes to know he’s facing a worthy opponent. He understands all the games played out behind the closed doors of the offices here—and Jester, so do I. I think I have a much better chance of surviving this than Teller, without intervention.”

He stared at her, and she smiled. It was wan. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve adhered a target to my forehead; it’s probably larger than I am. But it will focus the attention of our enemies, both the ones we know and the ones we don’t. Teller might receive some of their attention, but I guarantee he won’t receive the brunt of it.” Her arms relaxed and she sat again.

“Finch—
you
will.”

“Did you think that was accidental? I know I’m not Duster. I’m not Carver. I’m not Arann—but I thought you of all people would understand that I don’t have to be in order to protect what’s ours.”

“Jay would never ask this of you.”

“It would kill her to lose Teller,” Finch countered.

“Do you not realize it would kill her to lose you, too?”

“Teller is special.” She said it without resentment, as if it were incontrovertible fact, like rain or dawn.

He shook his head. “You don’t see yourself.”

“No, Jester, I do. I can’t do anything that Jay couldn’t do. She loves me because I’m one of the ones she saved—and I
stayed
saved. I stayed alive. She talks to me, yes—but in a house full of men, you have to expect that. I’m not saying she wouldn’t be upset if I died—but she’d be shattered to lose Teller.”

Jester fell silent. Finch had never been concerned with power, and he finally understood that she wasn’t, now. Ruby wouldn’t see it, of course. Jester wasn’t certain Jarven did. But Finch would never have chosen this course for her own sake. He felt a knot of tension in his brow unravel, and he grinned.

“She wouldn’t be shattered to lose me,” he offered.

“She would be shattered to lose any of—”

“—Us. Don’t shake your head. Maybe you don’t see yourself clearly. Jay does. I understand what you’re doing. No, I take that back. I understand why. Did you put Haval up to this?”

She shook her head.

“Did you approach him?”

“No.”

“He approached you.”

“Yes. Two days ago.”

“Were the letters his idea?”

Finch looked confused. “Haval’s?”

“He knew who the recipients were.”

She frowned. “Did he mention them by name?”

“No. He made it clear that he knew.”

“Haval isn’t above bluffing, according to Jarven. Jarven respects him.”

“That is not a recommendation in my books.”

Finch laughed, but sobered quickly. “He wasn’t privy to the contents of the letters; no one was.”

“Not even Jarven?”

“Unless he has some method of standing over my shoulder in the West Wing, no. I wouldn’t put it beyond him, though.”

“I would. He doesn’t cross our threshold unless he’s in your company, and I make certain he leaves when you do.”

“Jester.”

“Jarven finds it amusing.”

“Which is why I don’t find it more annoying. Jarven considers physical snooping gauche. I didn’t discuss them with him; I couldn’t afford to have word passed on before these letters arrived. They would have lost all impact.” She looked down at her hands. “You’re the only one left, Jester. I know you hate work; I know you hate the responsibility and the very real possibility of failure. But you’re the only one who I know will have my back.” She looked up, then.

“Do I have to like it?”

“The work? No. I’m not fond of it myself.”

“Do you really know what you’re doing?”

“I know what I’m trying to do.”

“Do you know how big this is going to get?”

“I didn’t. But I honestly wasn’t expecting the attack on the Merchant Authority today. If I’d known, I’m not sure—” She stopped speaking as the door opened. It was Lucille, and she hadn’t bothered to knock.

“Sigurne Mellifas is here,” Lucille said quietly. “Jarven is entertaining her in his—in your—office.”

“Am I expected?”

“Commanded might be the better word.”

Jester headed toward the door. “I’ll talk to you at home,” he said, on the way out. “Mages give me hives, and I don’t trust you not to drag me in to take notes.”

7th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Merchants’ Guildhall, Averalaan Aramarelas

H
ECTORE OF ARAVEN STOOD, for a moment, in a crowd. He chose to be silent, although silence was not his particular strength; waves of conversation—and argument—filled the large room. In general, sound traveled, but in general, meetings of the Merchants’ Guild were social affairs. Business was seldom conducted in collegial gatherings, but overtures could be made; although the membership itself was comprised of merchants from all echelons of Imperial society, not all of the members understood the social cues by which the guild was informally governed. This caused the occasional awkwardness.

Day-to-day governance of such a fractious and diverse body had never been Hectore’s concern; Araven was powerful enough that it possessed an unofficial rank few shared. He had, therefore, made no moves to head the governing body of the guild, and if he did not regret that decision, he considered a change in direction now. He found the events at the Merchant Authority unsettling.

“Patris Araven.”

Silence, of course, was not the same as invisibility, although in the case of the man who approached Hectore, invisibility would no doubt be no guarantee of safety. “ATerafin.”

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

“You are not.”

Jarven chuckled.

“Honestly, Jarven, your ability to find humor in emergencies is almost obscene.”

“I find humor in your short temper, Patris Araven. In a man of your stature, it is unexpected.”

Hectore raised a brow, and Jarven inclined his head. He did not, however, fall silent. “You seldom choose to grace the guildhall with your presence.”

“I dislike pandering obsequiousness, except when it’s useful.”

“Ah. I trust I am not—”

“You could not pander to save your life.” This was not, by rumor, strict truth, but it caused Jarven ATerafin to chuckle again. Hectore admired Jarven, but did not trust him; he was a man around whom one let down one’s guard at one’s immediate peril. “I had not heard that you considered such attendance mandatory yourself.”

“I am an old, unmarried man; I have no children and no grandchildren. Therefore, I find the society in the guildhall of interest.”

Hectore glanced around the room; it was thick with bodies, and for the most part they were not interested in the politely social; they were both upset and afraid. Men of Hectore’s stature did not openly display such fear, but only a fool could fail to feel it.

A fool or Jarven. The older man’s eyes were sharp; they glittered like gemstones—with just as much warmth. The lines around eyes and mouth disguised this; he seemed like a genuinely warm, sympathetic man—a man past his prime, and comfortable to be so.

“Where is Andrei?”

“He finds meetings of this nature wearying.”

Jarven’s smile stiffened. “He is not unlike his master in that regard?”

“I find them necessary.”

“The young are bold or foolish, Hectore. You are no longer young. If I may offer advice—”

“Propriety has never stopped you from offering it before, and if I recall, the advice was disastrous.”

“You only pretended to take it.”

“True.”

“And thus proved a point. It was an expensive point,” Jarven added.

“For which you’ve no doubt forgiven me.”

“I seldom hold grudges at my age; they require far too much energy.”

Seldom. Not never. “Your advice, old friend?”

“Do not forgo the pleasure of Andrei’s company in the near future, where pleasure is of course entirely contextual.”

Hectore did not argue. Andrei’s absence had already caused one disagreement for the evening; he did not wish to rehash it for Jarven’s amusement, and it would pain Andrei to know that Jarven actually agreed with him. “You yourself are without House Guard.”

“There is always a risk in deadly games,” Jarven replied, with a smile that was almost beatific. “And as I am expected to succumb to old age and expire momentarily, the risks outweigh the possible benefits.”

“I imagine, old friend, that there are those who are desperate to reach you before you expire peacefully.”

“Yes, well. I feel it important that the young develop ambitions, and I hate to discourage them.” He smiled again. It reminded Hectore that Jarven in his youth had been considered a handsome man.

A handsome, ruthless, largely amoral man. The last, in Hectore’s estimation, was untrue. He was a minorly amoral man. As long as you did not stand in his way, he was amiable and unpredictably helpful. If you did, and you were not extremely cautious, you would not be standing in his way for long. Sentiment did not bind him; affection did not sway him. Yet in his fashion he could be both sentimental and affectionate.

He was old, yes. But old or no, Hectore had never seen the challenge Jarven was willing to accept that he could not, in the end, rise to face. A wise man did not bet against him; Hectore had not always been wise in his youth.

“Keep Andrei with you,” Jarven said again. “If such a man had consented to serve me, I wouldn’t let him out of the range of my shadow.”

“You have Lucille,” Hectore replied, grinning. Lucille was almost everything Jarven was not. She disliked Hectore and the Araven business—if dislike was not too mild a word—but Hectore could find no similar disdain for her. “Andrei is far too wise to cross her.”

“Andrei accepts the fact that
you
are master of your domain,” Jarven countered, with a similar grin. “Lucille has
expectations
. It is remarkably difficult not to disappoint them; the finesse required is challenging.” His smile faded, like sunlight on the edge of twilight. “Andrei was correct.”

“I’ll trouble you not to repeat that; he will be insufferable.”

“He is frequently insufferable; it has not notably harmed either you or your many ventures.”

“No. Andrei is not generally given to understatement. I will confess that I did not expect an open attack—during business hours—on the Authority Council.”

“And the offices?”

“I would not have been surprised—at all—to hear that Terafin had been likewise destroyed. I am surprised—if gratified—to know that it was not. Was that your doing?”

Jarven shrugged. “I am not, in spite of all gossip to the contrary, mage-born. I have, as I have mentioned, no family. I have no wife, and no offspring of whom I am currently aware. I have, perhaps, more time to devote to precautions that would only be necessary in the most extraordinary circumstances.

“Finch is the closest thing I have to a daughter. Do
not
make that face, Hectore; it will spoil my dinner. If you reference this small conversation at all, I ask that you use the word protégée; it is the one with which I have most experience.”

“You generally destroy your protégées,” Hectore said, speaking as mildly as one might about under-watered potted plants.

“That is harsh, Hectore.”

“You’re not disagreeing.”

Jarven’s smile was pleasant, paternal. It set Hectore’s teeth on edge. “I give them the opportunity to destroy themselves. They have learned what Finch has learned, and they have seen what Finch has seen. They merely failed to understand and deploy it. If they are to be associated with me, they will prove themselves worthy of that association; I have given them all of the tools they require, and I will not leave overweening fools as my legacy.”

“You will not play these games with the young ATerafin council member.”

“As you say.”

“Jarven—” Hector fell silent. “Look at me; I’m being baited like a gangly, inexperienced youth.”

Jarven’s grin deepened; he was genuinely amused. “The information that Andrei provided was subtle, but deep. I am not yet finished with it; I have only just begun.”

“Andrei’s chief concern at the moment is the timing. It is possible that the disaster in the Authority offices had nothing to do with the investigation—but the timing is suspect.”

“It is,” was Jarven’s quiet reply. If successful baiting amused him, failure of subtlety did not. “It is also a clear indication that extraordinary caution is required. You have not, I note, come back with another round of the almost insulting missives you call contract negotiations. Not even Varson could catch all of the annoying little details.”

“As it happens, I have just received the latest draft from my scribe; he considers your amendments to be petty, but feels they fall just short of open insult. He is clearly not familiar enough with your work.”

Servants began to circulate through the room, carrying trays with finger foods and wine. Food, in a gathering of this nature, was almost always welcome; Hectore was slightly surprised to see how much of it remained. The wine also surprised him; the guildmaster had clearly opened the wine cellars generally reserved for smaller and more elite patrician gatherings.

“The guildmaster expects difficulty,” Jarven observed.

“Yes. I’ve never considered him a fool.”

“Have you considered him an ally?”

“An odd question, ATerafin. We are all merchants here.”

“Indeed. But have you not noticed that the currency has changed? The game has grown, Hectore. It has become large enough that it is almost impossible to see the entire board.”

“Almost?”

Jarven smiled. “We are endlessly inventive; if we understand the language of power, translation should not be beyond us.” He looked past Hectore’s shoulder. “I believe the guildmaster has arrived.”

 • • • 

Guerrin ADurrance was younger than Hectore, but not by much, and he went to some small pains to disguise what remained of his youth, preferring the gravitas of wisdom. Or at least the appearance of it; Hectore did not know Guerrin well. He was not generally impressed by the younger man’s pretensions, although he considered some pretense of vital import in the running of the guild. During times of what could tentatively be called peace—as the trade wars were often bloody, long affairs—Guerrin was an acceptable figurehead.

The events at the Merchant Authority did not fall under the rubric of trade war. Had there been deaths by obvious—and mortal—assassins, there would be disquiet and many blind eyes. But magic had been used, and in outrageous and openly illegal ways. The Order and its body politic was already sniffing around the edges of the guild’s governing body; the Kings had been informed, and were no doubt ready to unleash their trained specialists.

It was an unfortunate truth of Hectore’s life that those of whom he was naturally most suspicious—Jarven being the prime example, if one considered only the men present—were also those he assumed most competent. He considered Jarven vain, but his vanity was almost entirely superfluous. It added a touch of color to the treacherous twists and turns of Jarven’s superficially harmless social dealings, no more. At heart, Jarven was pragmatic. If he knew what he wanted, it was his.

Hectore was not cut from the same cloth. He considered most of his fortune to be the result of both hard work—a necessity, in any trade—and luck, the blessed smile of
Kalliaris
. He had, of course, some experience with her frowns, but they were mercifully brief and, to date, they had not been fatal.

He knew when to accept a loss. Jarven did not. A loss was merely a break in the game, while he considered different strategies. But Jarven was older now, and the drive and passion of a younger man’s ambition had all but deserted him.

Or so Hectore would have said, a week ago. Perhaps two. The Jarven who stood unapologetically at his side surveying a crowd of hostile, fearful, and yes, obsequious men, was clear-eyed. No, bright-eyed. Not a detail in the room would escape his notice, and possibly his future manipulation.

As Guerrin ADurrance made his way to the lectern by the highly decorated far wall, Hectore said, “What do you think of young Guerrin?”

To Hectore’s profound and lasting surprise, Jarven said, “I think it is time to take our leave.
Now
, Hectore.”

 • • • 

One argued with Jarven at one’s peril, but in general if one chose peril, there were good reasons for it. Jarven was methodical, if unpredictable; he had a mind like an abacus and a heart like a mage’s interior offices. Hectore was a man whose decisions were often made on instinct alone. He could explain that instinct after the fact, prettying it up or making it sound more rational and pragmatic than it actually was, but at base, some of the most significant decisions he had made in his history at the helm of Araven had been made without deliberation.

He did not make a run for the doors; that was beneath them both. But he offered Jarven a genial, controlled nod, rather than argument or question. Nor did he seek to leave by the large public doors that he’d entered by; something in Jarven’s tone made the well-lit, well guarded doors seem impractical.

Jarven raised a white brow as Hectore turned and headed toward a section of sparse wall.

“It is stuffy,” Hectore said, as if in explanation, “and Guerrin understands the tone of a room and its occupants; the doors to the main hall—” the hall in which they were now walking, “are guarded by impressive men in impressive livery and in larger than usual numbers tonight.”

“They are unlikely to stop us,” Jarven said, following adroitly and gracefully through the thinnest part of the crowd.

“Thanks to you, old friend, I no longer feel that with appropriate certainty.”

Jarven grinned. The old bastard was genuinely enjoying himself, and Hectore somewhat resented it. Not enough, however, to become truculent and insist on remaining; he hadn’t been looking forward to Guerrin’s speech, and in other circumstances might appreciate a good excuse to miss it.

“I had not realized,” Jarven said, when Hectore opened the servants’ entrance, “that you had reached such elevated, trusted status that the servants would not look askance at your presence among their number.”

“I am a merchant,” Hectore replied. “I sell whatever is required. It would not be the first time I’ve slipped out of the guild through the back halls.”

“I am shocked,” Jarven said, with obvious amusement.

“You yourself recognize the halls.”