Oracle: The House War: Book Six (38 page)

“I will deal,” she replied, “with the Household Staff.”

“She’s
twelve
.”

“Age is irrelevant.” For the first time since she entered this light-filled, hushed room, she moved. Jester expected her to throw him out the way he’d arrived—although she had very, very strict rules about the use of the back halls. His presence broke all of them except the first, but it was the only one that would count. The Master of the Household Staff had granted her personal permission.

She did not, however, usher him out. “Touch nothing,” she said curtly as she moved toward—and through—the door that led into what he now assumed were her rooms.

He was left alone in a small, sunny room, a hint of breeze touching his face. His hands remained behind his back; he was certain at this point that if he even moved, she would know. But she had not told him to remain as he was; she had merely advised him that nothing was to be touched.

Therefore, he touched nothing; he did look. The dishes in the cabinets were of an unfamiliar make and pattern, and many looked old—too old to be used respectably in food service. The lace of the curtains was an ivory that spoke of age and use; the books were likewise worn. He glanced at the rug that softened his footfall, and frowned.

A similar rug graced the right-kin’s office.

What did he know about the dragon? Not, he thought, enough. He had no doubt that the similarities between the two rugs did not stop at appearance. It had never occurred to him that servants would require the specific type of magical protections that the right-kin did.

No, he thought, with a trace of his usual bitterness, it had never occurred to him that the needs of servants would matter to those who could afford those protections. On the other hand, had he encountered the Master of the Household Staff in any other situation, he would have scoffed at the very notion that she could be a servant.

House Terafin: where even the
servants
were patrician and terrifying.

Shaking his head, he approached the closed door through which the Master of the Household Staff had disappeared.

“—If you expect gratitude, you have failed to understand my role as Master of the Household Staff.”

The door was a solid, thick door; the Master of the Household Staff was not shouting; Jester had never heard her raise her voice. She was a woman who valued control, and that control extended to herself in all ways. He should not have been able to hear her, but he did.

“I understand the role well,” her visitor said. His voice, as hers, was smooth and chilly. It was also familiar. Rymark. Rymark ATerafin. “You are to see to the efficient and smooth operation of this manor and its properties. The situation is, of course, beyond you.”

Jester’s surprise made clear that he had expected Haerrad to be behind the death. Or the near death, as the case was.

“The girl was a member of the Household Staff.”

“Yes. And her presence in the manor implies a sorry lack of security in our hiring practices.”

Silence.

Rymark was not a man who had ever been easily intimidated. Jester had assumed this was because Gabriel ATerafin, the former right-kin, was his father. Gabriel’s rather clouded resignation had done nothing to change Rymark’s attitude. Jay’s ascension had—but, as expected, the change was superficial; it was a mask turned in the direction of The Terafin, and discarded everywhere else.

“I have not yet seen proof of your claims, ATerafin. Even had I, she was a member of the Household Staff, and my responsibility.”

“You understand that The Terafin is on urgent leave.”

“I am not fully apprised of The Terafin’s business, and as it is not my concern, I would appreciate if no more were said of that matter in these rooms.”

“And you understand that at this time, the House is in a delicate political position. It is my suspicion that at least one—if not two—of the previous attempts on The Terafin’s life came at the directive of the
Astari
.”

“That is not my concern. It is not the concern of the Household Staff.”

“It is the
concern
of
every
member of this House.” Rymark’s voice rose.

“No, ATerafin, it is not.”

“An example must be made, and a message sent, to the
Astari.
We are not to be trifled with, and we are not without power and resources of our own. The death of the girl achieves both. We are not cowering in terror; we are not looking over our shoulders. We are not victims of espionage and deadly political games.”

“Again, ATerafin, you have no proof.”

“I have proof, if it is required. It will be tendered to the House Council, not the
servants
.”

“It will be required,” she replied. “I have books to which I must attend, and a duty roster. If you have nothing further to say, ATerafin?”

“I have a great deal—”

“A figure of speech. You have nothing relevant to say. I will, however, tender a reply to your statements. If, as you claim, you have incontrovertible proof that a junior servant was in the pay of the
Astari
, ejecting her via the trade doors would have served to send the message you desired sent. If you wish the
Astari
to understand that they are vulnerable and their operations understood, her death was not a necessity.

“Had you come to me with this proof, I would have dealt with the situation. In future, remember this. She was
not
ATerafin. Her death could cause the rules of exemption to be revoked in their entirety, and the whole of the House laid open to the Mysterium and the Magisterium’s truthseekers, should the
Astari
desire it.

“And in this Empire, ATerafin, being a member of the
Astari
is not considered a capital crime.”

 • • • 

Jester, no fool, had not waited upon the return of the Master of the Household Staff; he had heard everything he needed to hear, and possibly a great deal more than he wanted. He exited the way he’d arrived, and without escort, which he considered a positive. He took one wrong turn on the way out of the back halls, which brought him into a far less abandoned section, but most of the servants were willing to turn a blind eye. One or two asked briefly about Carver.

He had nothing to say. The fact that Jay had gone in search of him—that she was the only possible way he’d come home—he couldn’t share. Jay to the servants was The Terafin. The Terafin did not abandon the rest of her duties for the sake of
one
man, no matter how important—and Carver, in the scheme of things, was not one of the fundamental pillars upon which the stability of the House depended.

The servants pointed him in the direction he wanted to go, and eventually he arrived in the great room of the West Wing; it was empty. He took the opportunity to pour himself a drink, and grimaced; he’d grabbed the wrong bottle and was not in the mood for the sweetness that hit his tongue.

He emptied the glass and headed over to the long couch, where he dropped like a soggy rock, Teller’s report still clutched in one hand. He glanced at it, wondering how quickly it would put him to sleep; given what the purported report contained, it shouldn’t, but Jester suspected that Guillarne could manage to make demonic magic a simple foil for his own imagined brilliance and cunning.

Which was not entirely fair to Guillarne, whom even Finch respected as a merchant negotiator—but Jester was not in a mood to be fair, and Guillarne was not present, and therefore unlikely to feel insulted.

He tugged off boots and set them on the carpet before falling over and stretching out. He needed to think. He needed to talk with Teller—which would have to wait; he needed to talk to Finch, and as he definitely did
not
need to speak with Jarven, that would have to wait as well. Jester had never called kitchen, but felt, at this juncture, it might be necessary. He’d let Finch decide.

Jester didn’t make a habit of lying, although he had nothing against it; he
was
lazy. Guillarne’s report looked like nothing but work. Yes, if he teased information out of the carefully self-serving, ego-strewn words, he might satisfy his curiosity about the disaster at the guildhall, but he wasn’t certain to pick up all of the implications contained within.

He wanted another drink, but didn’t want to get up. The drink wouldn’t come to his hand on its own, more’s the pity. He lifted Guillarne’s report, paused, and then smiled. As smiles went, it wasn’t particularly friendly. Yes, it was work. Yes, he wanted a drink. And he wanted a bit of amusement.

For amusement, on a day that had held less than none of it, he was willing to live with a little bit of discomfort. He stood, walked over to the cabinet, poured himself something that was far less sweet, and, glass in hand, headed out the doors.

 • • • 

Jester knew that Haval had gone to the Merchant Authority at about the same time as he was asking Barston for an appointment with the right-kin. At the time, he had hoped—prayer being a little beyond him—that Haval would then go to his
own
house, to be castigated by his very direct wife.

He was certain that fate had not been that kind, and at the moment, appreciated what would otherwise have been typical bad luck. He walked, glass in one hand, report in the other, to Haval’s workroom. Haval was to prepare mourning clothing appropriate for work in the Merchant Authority for Finch, which gave him an excuse to be present—not that he needed a fortuitous excuse; he was perfectly capable of coming up with a believable, practical lie.

Having no free hands and no convenient page, Jester kicked the door instead of knocking. He heard a muffled reply, and kicked it again. The third time was the charm; Haval, looking about as irritated as one would expect, appeared in the doorway. He was wearing an apron through which various pins had been placed.

He looked pointedly at the drink in Jester’s hand, and less pointedly at the report, which was not as pristine as it had been on receipt. “I do not need to tell you to touch nothing. I will, however, tell you to watch your step. I am almost at the point where I am willing to surrender some part of my tailoring duties.”

“You’re on death’s door?”

“I may well be soon—of apoplexy.” He waited until Jester had entered the room—which given the state of cloth and bolts strewn on the floor was more time-consuming than it sounded—before he closed the door. “What are you carrying?”

Jester handed it to Haval and slid one hand into a pocket. Haval noticed; Jester was subtle, but subtlety failed where Haval was concerned, and given the contents of the conversation to follow, was pointless.

“Guillarne’s report of events at the Merchants’ guildhall.” He left the document in Haval’s hands and attempted to find a safe chair to occupy. Given Haval, that was a challenge.

“Your appointment with the right-kin was productive, then.” It didn’t sound like a question; it was. Jester was silent, considering and discarding a variety of responses.

Haval did not immediately return to the cutting of cloth; he found a chair more quickly than Jester had, his prohibition on touching things not, of course, applying to himself. He read Guillarne’s report, as Jester had intended. Jester watched his expression; there was none. No lift of brow, no twitch of eye, no shift in the corners of his mouth; no tightening of hand, no change in breathing—nothing.

“You have read this report?” he asked, without looking up.

Jester failed to answer, which did draw the clothier’s attention. Jester shrugged. “It looks like a lot of work.”

Unblinking, Haval stared at him.

“Look, have you ever
met
Guillarne?”

Haval exhaled. “I find your lack of curiosity astonishing.” Voice firewood dry, he added, “Much information comes from gossip; gossip grows out of the need to have information important to your social context, coupled with the need to impress others with that knowledge.” He handed the report back to Jester. “You will read it.”

Jester smiled. “You can’t blame a lazy man for trying to shift the burden of unasked for work.”

Haval ignored this. “A reasonably intelligent man could be forgiven for assuming that your presence here indicates a desire to discuss Guillarne’s statement. I count myself reasonably intelligent. You, however, did not come to discuss its contents, yet you are here, interrupting what is not, in the end, optional work.

“I will assume that you are not lying; you have not read the document in your hands.”

“Not that you would have any problems with a lie.”

“Not the ones that do not waste my time, no.” His posture shifted, which is as much expression as he allowed himself. “In an effort not to waste what is apparently a scarce resource, I will come to the point. Why are you here?”

“If you haven’t had the pleasure of Guillarne’s company, and the report did not instill a visceral desire never to do so, you are a stronger man than I.”

“My time, Jester.”

“If you don’t know Guillarne,” Jester continued, enjoying himself but aware that things would get serious very shortly, “I’m certain that you
are
acquainted with Duvari.”

Haval didn’t react to the name at all.

“Some key members of the House Council believe that Duvari was responsible for one of the failed assassination attempts on The Terafin.”

“Significant members?”

“That’s a judgment call.”

“Yes, and I suppose I should not expect such discernment from you.”

Jester laughed. “That’s harsh.”

“It is not. I can, however, be harsh if you feel a need to appreciate the difference.”

As he’d finished the drink, Jester set the empty glass beneath the chair and raised both hands. “I am getting to the point. I am not aware of how many of the House Council believe this; I don’t think numbers are relevant. There is nothing about the belief that is ridiculous.”

“No.”

“I’ve heard rumors about Duvari—most of them occur whenever a suitably rich or politically powerful patrician meets their end. Most of the rumors are exactly that—another way to take a public swipe at a universally detested man.”

“It is a miracle to me that you have survived Jewel; I admit that I would not have thought she had the patience.”