Oracle: The House War: Book Six (19 page)

“Where the hells are the rest of your magi?”

“On the other side of the far doors,” Sigurne replied. “Do not tarry here, Eva.”

Eva snorted. “I should throw you out first, myself.”

“Go. I will follow.”

“You’re practically unconscious as it is, Guildmaster.”

It was true; Sigurne did not waste breath denying it.

She listened. She listened to what she heard in Meralonne, his voice familiar, even if the words that it uttered were—and would always be—beyond her. He rode the wind, and it carried him in graceful, sudden arcs; his sword left a trail of light in her vision, a ghostly lattice, a map, of sorts.

He was as wild, here, as the wind; as wild as the fire. There was beauty in savagery as compelling as storm and mountain and the vast depth of ocean on a clear day. She could not own it; she could not touch it. But she could bear witness.

“Sigurne, come away.” The words were no part of the wild; they contained no magic, no majesty. The voice that spoke them was older, rougher; it dipped and faded as the wind roared. It was not the voice she wanted to hear, now.

But she could.

“Sigurne, Eva has taken the last of the merchants. Meralonne cannot finish this combat while you are here.”

“He does not see me,” she whispered.

“No. But he knows. Come. I cannot maintain the path for nearly as long as you have, and we must be away before the floor collapses.”

She did not have the strength to repeat the words of a distant god. But Meralonne was here; she did not have to try. She could listen. She could listen to things that would never, ever hear her voice in their turn.

“Sigurne.”

Matteos gripped her arm, pulling her through the ragged hole. Splinters of wood lodged themselves in the backs of her calves and caught in the hem of her robe. Clumsy, really. Had her spells unraveled so much in so short a time?

“Sigurne.”

Ah. Yes. Yes, she thought. They had. But the time was not so small a span; she was not in the Northern Wastes, and the demon was not her master; the only thing the past and the present had in common was the white-haired man with the sky-blue sword and the shining, silver eyes. She had watched him in the Northern Wastes, where the snow was so white it caused the eye to water. She stood, tall, as tall as she had ever stood, her hands by her sides, her eyes dry—and wide. She had known he would come for her.

But not before he killed the Ice Mage.

Not before he killed the
Kialli
. The demon lord did not fear him. She wondered if he understood that the white-haired man was his death—if death had any meaning to a creature who claimed that he had died when the world was young and the gods still walked the earth. She had been sixteen years of age. She had had no expectation, at that moment in time, that she would see seventeen—and she did not care.

So many years between that day and this one. She was old, now, bent with the weight of age.

The only thing she waited for was death, but death—ah, death had not come. Not for her, not yet. Sigurne Mellifas had her pride; if death avoided her, she
would not
walk toward it; she would not beg for mercy. Not then, when death would have been a welcome relief, and not now. Not when she still had work to do.

“Matteos.” She did not look at him; she tried. But she spoke his name in a voice that was shorn of all strength.

He spared no glance for Meralonne as he shouldered the greater part of her weight, turning her toward the servants’ exit. Toward life. Touch alone confirmed what he was too observant to miss, but he did not coddle or otherwise undermine her.

That would come later, in the privacy of her Tower, when the undamaged halls of the Order of Knowledge once again enfolded them both. “Sigurne.”

“I know,” she whispered. “We are almost done here.”

“You
are
done here.” He glanced past her, sliding an arm beneath her arms and taking as much of her weight as she was willing to allow him. Her knees were weak; she locked them. She was accustomed to being treated as if she were old and frail, and it had its uses.

It would not be useful here.

“Meralonne?”

Matteos glanced back. “. . . The damage to the guildhall will be extensive.”

“And Gavin?”

“I am not certain there will be anything left for Gavin and his magi to detain.”

Sigurne grimaced. “Gavin is not a fool. He understands what the Order—and the Mysterium—now require. We cannot capture or compel demons; we can, however, interrogate mortals. The men in guildhall tabards were no demons.”

Matteos nodded; it was a gesture meant to stifle discussion, rather than to indicate agreement. The nimbus of orange that had surrounded them both brightened around only Sigurne. “Let your protections go,” he told her.

Her nod was mirror to his, and he did not press her. She watched Eva’s back until her vision was too blurred to continue. Her eyes closed almost of their own accord as she listened. She had not stopped listening.

“Sigurne.” Matteos’ voice was thin and rough.

She did not lie to comfort him. “Yes. I was . . . unwise. I did not realize how much of a drain the first cast spell would be. It was not an act of folly,” she added, although her voice shook. “The damage done to the Empire if all of the merchants had perished here would be catastrophic.”

Matteos did not argue. And Sigurne, shuddering, let the last of her protections lapse as his enfolded her. He was, she thought, her knight, her liege, her oathguard. He would not argue with her here. He would not ask her what spell she had cast, or how; why was enough of an answer. He would not ask her what Meralonne APhaniel meant when he spoke of danger.

He would not ask her what she heard, when she listened. She was grateful. She knew who their enemy was. She knew what he was. She even understood what he wanted, inasmuch as a mortal could. But she could not relinquish the sound of the god’s voice, although he was her enemy. Not until she at last surrendered consciousness—and even this, she fought.

8th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

J
ESTER AND MORNINGS WERE not the best of friends; had he the luxury of choice, they would have been nothing more than nodding acquaintances. He tended to spend too much of the early morning hours with bards or the less fractious merchants, and he required time to sleep off the worst of his excesses.

On this particular morning, he was stone cold sober. He had returned from the Merchant Authority and retreated immediately to the West Wing for a quiet and isolated meal. His retreat did not go unnoticed. One of the junior pages, a girl or boy of perhaps ten, stumbled on the carpets in the long, public gallery; Jester was there to catch her before the stumble became a fall. She apologized profusely, clearly terrified that such clumsiness had been witnessed. But as he helped her to her feet, she slid something into the palm of his hand.

He failed to notice. He failed to notice it as he entered the West Wing, passing between the Chosen who now stood guard at the doors; he failed to notice as he bypassed the dining room and the great room and headed directly for his personal chambers.

He also failed to notice it when he dropped it in a drawer in the pristine desk which was used for very little else. He disliked the desk on principle. Teller had a new desk that was very similar to it—but Teller had insisted that
all
of their desks be replaced.

Jester understood why and saw no point in arguing; then again, Jester seldom saw much point in arguing. He had his own way of dealing with things, none of which involved an empty stomach. At the moment, none of them involved company, either. He had dinner sent to his rooms, and he hunkered there, eating and thinking about the day’s events.

They required thought, but he kept returning to Finch. Someone had tried to assassinate her. Jay had been The Terafin at the time—although technically she was still The Terafin. Jester didn’t take notes—not written ones. But he thought about Ruby and Verdian. About Ludgar. About Jarven ATerafin, a man he was never going to trust.

The odd thing was that Finch didn’t trust him, either.

When he finished eating, he brooded. He considered heading out for the evening, but the events at the Merchant Authority had unsettled him enough that he wanted to sort through the questions that arose from it. The obvious questions, he discarded. Everyone would ask those. But absent the obvious—who was responsible, and what they could possibly gain—subtle questions remained.

Those, he would have to approach with care, and the first step of care was deciding which questions would yield information. Once he had questions, he would have a clearer idea of who his drinking companions for the next week were likely to be.

 • • • 

Evening had surrendered very few questions of use by the time it gave way to morning; it had also offered very little restful sleep. Jester considered catching Teller in the breakfast nook, but decided against it; Teller was likely to ask about his meeting with Haval, and Haval Arwood was not the man Jester wished to discuss. Not with Teller.

In an attempt to put that discussion off, he lingered in bed until he was fairly certain Teller had finished. He then rose and asked that breakfast be sent to his room. Given the dark circles under his eyes, the servants no doubt assumed he was hungover, which happened with less frequency than they suspected, but probably more frequency than was wise.

He was, therefore, less than well pleased when breakfast arrived with company. He was not terribly surprised at the company itself, and briefly considered attempting to discard that company in the same way he’d discarded the message. “I wasn’t really expecting visitors,” he said, glancing pointedly at his dressing gown. It was too much to expect that Haval would take the less than graceful hint.

“You should have been.”

“Yes, well. Did you bring food for two?”

“No. I breakfasted with my wife. With,” he added, sharpening his voice, although his face was almost expressionless, “my extremely worried wife. You perhaps have some inkling of what has caused her latest concerns?”

Jester, like any of the den, could eat on the literal run, if necessary. Eating while an inscrutable bloody
tailor
interrogated him wasn’t going to be a problem, even if his appetite was fast approaching zero. He walked over to the trays that had been set on the small table, and lifted their silver lids, glancing at a distorted reflection of Haval as he did. “I got your message.”

“You did not reply.”

“No; no reply was demanded. I’m not sure I approve of your method of delivery.”

Haval said nothing.

“I don’t recall that I agreed to work for you,” he continued, when the long pause had grown awkward, even for Jester. “If I’m to do so, some discussion about compensation is in order.”

Once again, Haval failed to respond. Jester dragged a chair across the rug. It was a battered piece of furniture of purely middling quality; he turned its back toward the table. He then sat in it, draping his arms over the top and folding them. “Did you know that the Merchant Authority would be under attack?”

“I did not. It is my guess that Finch suspected there would be difficulties. I doubt that even she expected the scope of them. It will not, today, be her chief concern. You have heard about the difficulties the Merchants’ Guild encountered?”

“. . . No.” Jester began to eat. The food, although warm, had very little taste at the moment.

“If you manage to leave your rooms today, you will no doubt hear every possible rumor.”

“How true are the rumors?”

Haval didn’t answer.

Fine, Jester thought. He was not in a mood to play games with the tailor. He was no longer in a mood to eat breakfast, but again, mood was seldom a deterrent. “Ruby ATerafin wasn’t surprised—at all—by Finch’s message. She wasn’t happy, but she expected trouble.” He grimaced. “She expected a lot more trouble from Finch than anyone reasonable has a right to expect.”

“Ruby ATerafin is known for her cunning, not her dispassionate view of life.”

Jester’s brows rose as he examined Haval’s face for some spark that implied deliberate humor. If it was there, the humor was dry enough to catch fire.

“Ludgar mentioned Verdian.”

“As?”

“As someone whose suspicion of Finch was correct.”

Haval nodded. “You are not suspicious of Ludgar.”

“Oh, I am. Ludgar would have no issues attempting to have Finch removed if he thought it would benefit him. But he can’t see Finch as a threat—and he’s not fool enough to attempt to kill Jarven, more’s the pity.”

“Is Verdian playing Ludgar?”

Jester shrugged. “He would be easy for Verdian to play, up to a point. I’d worry more about the possible influence she has on Ruby.”

“Ruby is not known to be fond of Verdian.”

“No—but Ruby’s not fond of anyone. Ludgar is Haerrad’s man, at the moment.”

“And Ruby?”

“Uncertain. She has feelers in at least three camps.”

“Three?”

“If you’re playing at ignorance, stop. It’s spoiling breakfast.”

Haval did smile, then, the bastard. “You are not concerned with either Ruby or Ludgar.”

“I am. They’re just a fair ways down the list at the moment. James Varson is not, in any way, in the running as a possible suspect in the attempt on Finch’s life.”

“I have not had the pleasure of making James Varson’s direct acquaintance. His name and his position are known to me; he himself is not. You do not consider him a possible antagonist.”

“No. I consider him a bit of a dupe, if we’re being frank.”

Haval raised a brow.

Jester found this more amusing when it was aimed at Jay. “I’m not certain what position Varson holds in the Merchant Authority offices as of yesterday; for the sake of his family, I hope he hasn’t been promoted.”

“Finch’s message to Varson?”

“I believe it was a penned warning of possible danger to the Authority itself, given Varson’s reaction.”

“From Finch.”

“Yes.”

“Not Jarven.”

“Not apparently, no. Jarven knows, of course. I don’t think anything happens in that office without his knowledge.” He exhaled. “Are you aware that Finch is now sharing office space with Jarven?”

Haval actually frowned. “I assume you mean, by this, that there is a change in her position.”

“There is. She is literally sharing an office with Jarven. She has a desk of her own in the office he’s occupied for decades. She takes her appointments in that room. I doubt he even sends her out to fetch and carry tea anymore.”

“I don’t,” was the somewhat more acid reply. “Were the messages she sent meant to convey her change in status?”

“Oh, they were certainly meant to convey
that
. They were not, however, otherwise empty. She’s threatening both Ludgar and Ruby.”

“You are certain?”

“I don’t know what she wrote to Ruby; I do know what she wrote to Ludgar.” He dropped his chin to his arms. “But I’m not sure either of the two—or Verdian or Haerrad or Rymark—are the biggest danger at the moment.”

“You are, in my opinion, correct, but they are not a danger to be dismissed out of hand. Let me tell you what I have gleaned about the events in the guildhall. I would send you there myself, but you are unlikely to gain access.”

“I’ve been on the inside of the Merchants’ guildhall before.”

“I am not at all surprised. The building, however—what remains of it—is under heavy Imperial quarantine. The magi and the mages of the Mysterium have closed its doors to even its members. Those members,” he added, “who survived. You will find that two very junior members of House Terafin perished last night. Two more escaped; I believe they are expected in the office of the right-kin this morning.”

“You believe?”

“They are currently resident within the Order of Knowledge. They will be questioned there, along with any of the other merchants who survived.”

Jester rose, frustrated. He considered the possibility that Haval was lying, and discarded it; the old man wasn’t fond of wasting his own time. “Tell me what the rumors are.”

“They are of strong concern to my wife.”

Jester actually liked Hannerle. He understood that she was deeply attached to her husband—and frequently disappointed in him. He was less certain that the attachment in the other direction was as reliable, but Jay believed it was. “Hannerle’s always been sensible.
What
rumors concern her?”

“Ah. The most disturbing of the rumors? That a demon—that several demons—attacked the Merchants’ guildhall in the middle of an emergency meeting last evening. The meeting itself was extremely well attended because of the attacks that had taken place in the Merchant Authority in the morning.

“Very few merchants of note who have been granted membership in the guild were absent—and of those, most were not resident within Averalaan at the time the call went out.”

“You mean all of the merchants who have membership were there.”

“To my knowledge—which is not complete—yes.”

Jester sat down again. “How accurate is this knowledge?”

“There is some margin for error; it is, in my opinion, small.” He paused and then added, “Jarven is a member of the guild in good standing.”

Jester frowned. “Have you spoken with Finch?”

“No. I was with my wife. By the time I arrived at the Terafin manse, she had departed for the day; she is no doubt ensconced in the Terafin Merchant Authority offices as we speak.”

“Jarven’s a member of the Merchants’ Guild.”

“He is.”

“Was Jarven present in the guildhall last night?”

“A very good question.” Haval glanced at the half-empty breakfast plates. “I have an appointment—on short notice—with Jarven ATerafin. We have an hour before it is scheduled to start.”

“You have an appointment. With Jarven.”

“Indeed. Appointment in this case is an inaccurate choice of wording; I have been summoned.”

“Jarven summoned you.”

“Technically, the summons came from Lucille ATerafin. I chose to ignore the summons; my wife did not feel this was the appropriate course of action.”

“She doesn’t care for Jarven.”

“She is barely aware of his existence. She is, however, aware that Finch is his direct subordinate, and that Finch is valued by Jarven. I am, therefore, to attend Jarven ATerafin.”

This made no sense to Jester.

“You are to speak with Teller,” Haval continued. “He may have more information about the events at the Merchants’ guildhall—but I believe the salient points for our purposes are now known.” He turned toward the door, but turned back.

“The Master of the Household Staff is not, perhaps, in the most pleasant of moods.”

Jester didn’t even ask the clothier how he’d come by this information.

 • • • 

Teller’s office was preternaturally silent when Jester entered. Barston was, as ever, behind his desk; he glanced up and the frown etched into his face by constant use deepened. “ATerafin.” He was so starched, he could never quite bring himself to use Jester’s name.

“Barston.”

“You have an appointment?”

“You already know I don’t. I’d like to make one, if the right-kin has the time.”

Barston glanced at Teller’s doors. To Jester’s surprise, he rose. He approached the closed doors, knocked, and waited. At some inaudible signal, he opened the doors and entered the room, closing them behind his back.

Whatever reports had filtered back to House Terafin from the Merchants’ Guild were bad, Jester thought. Very bad. He had not thought to ask Haval how many men and women had died in total; his own fault. Haval was not a man given to dramatics that served no purpose; information didn’t require it.

But Barston’s color, Barston’s expression, made clear that the answer was not a small number. And it made clear, as well, that rumors of demonic involvement were almost certainly based in fact. The shadow of the Henden of 410 had fallen over the secretary’s face.

The door opened.

The Master of the Household Staff exited the right-kin’s office, looking as pleased as she usually did. If there was any sign of fear in the pinched, narrow line of her mouth, displeasure swamped it. She glanced at Jester, her eyes narrowing to edges. She was, on the other hand, a woman composed entirely of edges; if looks could kill, Jester would no doubt be bleeding—but Barston would be dead.