Oracle: The House War: Book Six (40 page)

Daine’s chin lifted fractionally, his eyes sharpening.

“Duvari does not choose randomly when he chooses those who enter his service.”

“They do not serve Duvari, but the Kings,” was the young man’s stiff reply.

“That, sadly, is not true. The Kings, if pressed, could not name Vareena—if that is, indeed, her name. Not even were she presented to them now. She was chosen by Duvari; she was tested by Duvari, and she survived. She was not placed in this House as an agent of the Kings; she was placed as
Astari.”

Slowly, slowly
, Finch gestured.

Haval shook his head. It had not escaped his notice that the den themselves were not comfortable when he chose to speak in their particular tongue, and he did it only at need.

“She serves
the Kings
,” Daine said, in a lower—but far more intense—voice.

“And the Kings command her to kill?” Haval replied. “Do the Kings now accept and witness the oath of allegiance all
Astari
must swear?” He pressed, allowing his focus to develop an edge; allowing knowledge and certainty to show.

It was, of course, a lie; all of it.

“The
Astari
swear their oaths to
the Kings
, and the Kings accept them; the Kings themselves make clear what that oath must mean. It is the Kings’ honor that is upheld or debased—and the
Astari
are aware of this. They must act in the best interests of the Empire, even when they are far away from the heart of its power; they must make choices that reflect those vows.”

“And the Kings then command them to kill? To assassinate those who might prove a theoretical danger in some dim future? Is that what you claim?”

“The
Astari
are not commanded to kill. And only a select few—a very few—expect to survive such assassinations, should they be deemed necessary at all. It is the Kings—the god-born—who decide.”

Haval closed his eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice once again the voice of the tailor. “So they do. But it is Duvari who decides which crimes are to be brought to the Kings for judgment, and it is Duvari who decides when the security of the Kings’ protectors has been compromised.

“It is often the case that those compromises also break inconvenient laws—but Duvari is, among the
Astari
, a law unto himself. He has the Kings’ trust.”

A rigid silence had fallen over every other occupant of this table; Jester’s pallor was unfortunate, given the color of his hair. Only Finch seemed unmoved; Teller was too still.

He met, and held, Finch’s gaze.

“We cannot afford to surrender the only healer we have.” She surprised him; she was a constant surprise. “And if I understand what you have implied, Haval, and what Daine has all but given away, we may be looking at exactly that.”

Daine’s gaze returned to Finch as if she were an anchor.

“Vareena will not be content to remain here. She may not consider Daine a threat.”

Daine said, softly, “She does.”

“She would have to,” Haval said. “If you know what she knows, you are.”

“I don’t know everything she knows.” Daine’s voice was lower and fuller; more his own. “But I know enough.”

Haval nodded. “There is no way to hide it; if Vareena leaves, she will leave with that information, and it will travel to Duvari, as all things eventually must.”

“How do we preserve Daine’s life?” Finch asked.

“There are two obvious and immediate possibilities if your goal is to preserve Daine. The safest and most obvious, you will not countenance.”

Silence. He did not elaborate; there was no one in the room who did not understand. Not even Daine. Perhaps, at this moment, especially not Daine.

No one asked Haval how he could speak with such certainty. No one argued against it. He had considered a less direct approach and discarded it. He did not understand what had happened with Vareena, but knew that the den was not involved—or had not been, until she had been brought, dying, across the healerie’s threshold. He knew Duvari as well as anyone present could claim to know him.

But he knew Jewel at least as well, and he knew that the den had been informed by her views and her beliefs. Not until they began to perish would they shift ground easily—if at all. He glanced, briefly, at Jester, and then returned to Finch.

“The second is far less reliable; it requires a great deal of finesse and information which would otherwise be difficult to uncover.”

“Are we agreed,” Jester asked, “that the first option is
not
an option?” He placed a hand on the table. This, Haval had not observed before, but it was clear in context that he was calling for a vote. And no one voted against him; Daine’s hand hit the table in a fist, and spread. Haval did not presume to vote; neither, he noted, did the Captains of the Chosen. If they were expected to do so, no one informed them.

Jester turned, somewhat belligerently Haval felt, to Haval. “What’s your second option?”

“You will want to consult with the House Mage to execute the second option. The House Mage is not the most reliable of allies.”

No one disagreed. No one spoke. Haval did not find this frustrating, although he did exhale heavily and pinch the bridge of his nose. “I do not know how many questions you are willing to answer, Daine. But you must answer at least one.”

Daine said nothing; Finch’s arm tightened, briefly, as the young man shuddered. He looked up at Haval, composing his expression so perfectly Haval could almost see the
Astari
training take hold. “What question?”

“I believe you are already aware of what I will ask.”

Daine’s nod was measured, controlled. His expression was almost as neutral as Haval’s; he had not chosen to dissemble or hide behind his obvious distress, his obvious discomfort. He was assessing Haval as if Haval was the largest threat the room contained. He did not spare a glance to the captains. Haval, observing him, considered the chances of success to be far lower than he had at the start of the evening.

The tailor set his hands upon the table and gestured; the gesture was fast, brief, and aimed in its entirety at Jester.
Watch. Do not speak.

“Understand that, for Vareena, the worst has already happened. She was discovered. You understand what that means to—and for—her. I do not think she will be thankful that you saved her life; it was her dying that exposed—to one who has not sworn the oaths she has—her knowledge and her identity. She is too young to be fully apprised of the composition of the
Astari
, but what she does know, you will know. I expect her to attempt to kill you.”

“I don’t,” was Daine’s stiff reply.

“If you wish to lie, lie. But perhaps attempt to be less obvious. I assume that you have no wish to die; please correct me if that assumption is in error.”

Daine inhaled; he appeared to be counting. “She doesn’t deserve to die.”

“Better. It is both the truth as you perceive it, and the truth, period. It is, however, irrelevant. Death comes to us all, deserving or not.”

“Not at twelve, it doesn’t,” Jester cut in.

“Sometimes far younger than that. You have all had some experience with death. You wish to preserve Vareena; you wish to protect what she protected. Given the healing, that is no surprise. I, however, was retained to protect what Jewel wished to protect. One of those things, Daine, was you. Who attempted to kill Vareena?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Haval once again brought fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Because if we are to preserve you both, we must have something to offer Duvari. Vareena was a junior maid. She has, if I am correct, spent her entire life in Duvari’s service. She has, quite possibly, served the
Astari
as spy prior to her placement here. Her knowledge of the inner workings of the Kings’ protectors is nonetheless, in my opinion, slight.

“It is not slight enough that Duvari will not consider Daine a threat. Daine, however, is the lesser threat.”

“The greater threat being Vareena’s discovery.”

“Yes. If I am correct, Daine, she has no idea—at all—how that discovery occurred.”

Daine nodded slowly.

“She, therefore, does not have the information that we need. What we need to give Duvari is the breach in his security. Not less—and certainly not more.”

T
ELLER CLEARED HIS THROAT. Finch kept an arm around Daine’s shoulder. Both the right-kin and the director of the Terafin Merchant Authority offices now looked concerned, which came as a relief to Haval. They were—the entire den was—sentimental; they habitually allowed sentiment and attachment to color their decisions. In the worst case, the sentiment overrode any other concerns. That they were aware that there
were
other concerns was of some comfort. Haval did not expect further comfort to be found this evening.

The Captains of the Chosen were silent in an entirely different way. They did not interrupt. They waited for Teller to speak.

“If we assume that Vareena’s assassination was at the hands of a member of the House, we’re compromising our own security. If we have methods—within the House—of ferreting out Duvari’s spies, they are not something that we can casually turn over to the
Astari
. It will work against our future interests.”

“Indeed.” Haval glanced at Jester, who said nothing.

Finch was not likewise silent. “Those methods clearly exist.” She spoke, in theory, to Teller; her gaze, however, fell to the captains. “Torvan, Arrendas, are you aware of what they are?”

Silence. Torvan finally said, “No.”

“I am not, as House Council member, apprised of them, either,” Finch said. “Teller, as right-kin, are you?”

“I am aware of many of the precautions taken to keep internal matters within the House.”

“And do you believe that those precautions exposed Vareena’s affiliations to whomever chose to kill her?”

“I don’t have enough information to determine that.”

“And if you had that information and you made that determination, what would you then do?”

“What,” Jester asked, “would Jay do?”

It was, of course, the only question that now occupied the den. To be fair, it occupied the Chosen as well; the den’s Jay was their Terafin.

Finch said, clearly, “Jay’s not here.” And the absence was felt. “We are. We’ll have to take our best guess and proceed from there. She left the House in our hands, and we can’t wait until she returns—we don’t have the luxury of time. Not in this.” She then turned to Haval. “I would appreciate it if political games played in the House not be played in the kitchen; I have enough difficulty with Jarven in the Merchant Authority as it is, and I’m not looking to add to them.”

Haval smiled and inclined his head. “Very well. I have some interest in your answer, but you are not, as you point out, my student. Were Jewel present, she would face the same difficulty that I have posed to you all; I believe she would handle it with markedly less grace, but I believe I know what answer she would tender. Daine is one of her den. She would accept the possible future disadvantage if it would preserve his—or any of your—lives.

“I do not believe, however, that the breach in Duvari’s security can be laid at the feet of the precautions the House itself takes. This poses a different set of difficulties.”

Finch looked predominately relieved; she was already moving to catch up to Haval. “We don’t have the information required to give to Duvari.”

“Exactly.” Haval once again turned to Daine. “And to get that information, we require you to answer the question I initially posed.”

Jester glanced at Haval; he said nothing. Haval doubted that anyone else had noticed; they were now watching Daine. Jester had dropped the pretense of boredom; he was listening with just as much care as anyone else in the room. To Haval’s surprise, he gestured quickly, the movements of his hand sparse; he might have been drumming the tabletop.

He must be old and out of practice, Haval thought, as he inclined his chin slightly. Too much surprised him, these days. It was not a good sign. Jester had signed:
thanks
.

Daine hesitated.

“Daine,” Finch said, once again taking the kitchen’s occupants in hand. “We will not kill Vareena.”

“Duvari might.”

“If Duvari wants her dead, there is nothing you, I, or anyone else can do to preserve her.” Finch’s voice remained soft; it was only the words themselves that showed an edge.

The healer accepted this as truth, which was unsurprising; it is what Vareena herself would no doubt believe. If she was competent—and in Haval’s opinion, she must be—she was twelve; her experience was focused, but lacked depth.

“And if you somehow think you can discover what Vareena didn’t discover in time, stop now. Vareena may have been working in isolation in Terafin—but first, I doubt it. I highly doubt it. And second, you are
not
Vareena. You are not
Astari
. You are a part of this den, and we have your back. Don’t walk away from us. Don’t get lost in Vareena.”

Daine reached up and caught Finch’s hand. He inhaled, exhaled, and straightened. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—you’re right. I don’t understand what happened, and I’ve been unable to really think about anything else.”

Haval nodded. “You are afraid to let the information out; you do not wish to give any warning to enemies that you clearly did not anticipate and cannot identify.”

“You should have been
Astari
,” Daine replied, wincing.

Haval’s expression soured instantly; it was not entirely an act. “I will attempt not to take that as an insult. Given the hour and the urgency of my other duties, I am likely to fail if the statement is ever repeated.”

Finch laughed. As Haval’s expression grew more pinched, Daine joined her. Teller smiled, but the smile was genuine. Haval allowed them the moment, no more. “We are not your enemies. The only man in this room who has not proved worthy of trust is, in fact, me. If you wish to relay this information in my absence, I will leave.”

Daine shook his head. “Someone will tell you anyway. You wouldn’t be here if Finch didn’t want you here, and I trust her judgment.”

Of course you do, Haval thought. He left the words unspoken. “Who almost killed Vareena?”

“Sabienne.”

 • • • 

Jester did not look surprised; he was. Everyone in this room knew that Sabienne had thrown her obvious, public support behind Haerrad. Only Jester knew that it was Rymark who had chosen to intervene with the Master of the Household Staff. The name he had expected to hear, given his eavesdropping, was Rymark’s.

No one else at the table blinked. “How?” Finch asked.

“Poison.”

Jester frowned. Poison—the right poison—could be hidden. It would be very suspicious if a junior maid collapsed and died in service—but the first thought in anyone’s mind would not be murder. Yet Rymark had taken it upon himself to visit the Master of the Household Staff—which seemed almost an act of desperation when considered with care.

“That is not the whole of the story,” Haval said. “If Vareena collapsed, she would not be taken immediately to the healerie; the Master of the Household Staff would no doubt be summoned first. Yet Vareena was taken to the healerie—and rumors suggest she only barely arrived in time.”

“She had been poisoned.” Daine’s reply was defensive.

“I do not doubt that. What I now doubt is that it was the poison that was responsible for her state.”

“It would have been.”

“Ah. But it was not.”

“. . . No.”

Jester rose; the motion was almost involuntary.

Sit
, Haval gestured. The younger man failed to note the signing—and Haval was not at all certain that this failure was deliberate.

“The poison,” Finch said, “I could see. Haerrad has no love for Duvari; he positions himself opposite the
Astari
so loudly it is a wonder that Duvari bothers to send his spies at all. Killing a spy he’d discovered would be, in his mind, a reasonable response—and a safe way of slapping Duvari in the face.

“But if he plays at enmity loudly, he is capable of subtlety; he must know that the girl was not ATerafin, and her death—if Duvari so chose—could open Terafin up to the very type of investigation that would weaken it significantly in the eyes of The Ten. He did not support the current Terafin, but he did not vote against her.”

“Only a fool would have done so, after The Terafin’s funeral,” Haval said.

“Haerrad can be a fool; he is always dangerous, regardless.” Finch frowned. “But I don’t understand. Sabienne poisoned Vareena—or at least Vareena assumes it was Sabienne; it’s unlikely that she saw the poison in use. Did she?”

“It is the only possibility. Sabienne asked for her aid.”

“Specifically?”

“No. She met Vareena while returning to her rooms to change; she was to meet a member of the Makers’ Guild, and she wished to don appropriate mourning, given the losses the city faced with the destruction of much of the Merchants’ Guild. Vareena was concerned; the request, however, seemed reasonable on the surface of things. Sabienne did, indeed, leave Terafin to meet with a member of the Makers’ Guild—on House business. I had it checked.”

Haval coughed.

Jester resumed his seat. “The reason Haval is coughing,” he said, as he examined his fingernails, “is the unusual interest you’ve shown. How, exactly, did you have this information checked?”

“I sent a page with a message for Sabienne. I did not,” Daine added, “send a message in my name—but yes, I approached the page.”

“Well, don’t in future. Finch and Teller can afford to look suspicious. They are part of this game. You aren’t—and you can’t afford to be. There’s some chance that some members of Terafin don’t actually know you’re healer-born. Granted, it’s small—but it’s not zero. The
last
healer that worked openly in this house was assassinated in order to isolate The Terafin. If it worked once before, it might be tried again.

“Don’t open yourself up to anything that looks even remotely political. Not now.”

“The page returned to say that Sabienne was otherwise engaged.”

“Sabienne left Vareena.”

“Vareena left Sabienne and returned to her duties—she was seen by other members of the Household Staff after her encounter with Sabienne. She realized what had happened, and attempted to return to the back halls. She collapsed in one of the small rooms used by the serving staff.

“She was found; she was carried elsewhere. At this point, her vision was failing. She is . . . not aware of the injuries she sustained when she lost consciousness.”

“The injuries?” Haval asked.

“Were severe. They look to be the work of a madman. There was no possibility that her death could be mistaken for an illness or an accident; it was pointlessly brutal. I consider it a small miracle that the servants who did find Vareena had the presence of mind to call me.”

“Wait. They called you—they did not move her?”

Daine hesitated, and then nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought it best—for the House—to claim that she had been carried to the healerie. She was, but only after.” He was pale as he closed his eyes. “They had the presence of mind to send someone running to the healerie. I do not think they would have maintained that presence of mind had they been forced to carry Vareena. Her body lacked structural integrity. It’s nothing short of a miracle that she survived for as long as she did.”

“Have you spoken at any length with the servants who found her?” Haval asked. Jester understood then why Finch had wanted Haval in the kitchen. He asked the questions that had to be asked—questions that would have been very, very difficult for anyone else. It was difficult just listening.

“Only one.”

“And that servant?”

“Berald ATerafin. He is one of the senior staff. He won’t talk to you, though,” Daine said. “The Master of the Household Staff made clear that this incident is closed.”

Haval’s frown was like a line carved in solid stone; at any other time, Jester would have enjoyed it. But one thought was running through his head, and he could not dislodge it.

Why kill the girl in this fashion if she was already dying? No, that was the wrong question. Why kill the girl in this fashion at all? What would be gained? Slitting her throat would have achieved the same effect: it would make clear that this was incontrovertibly a murder.

Given Daine’s information, simple murder was not the end goal. Murder, on its own, upset and unsettled people; it caused existential fear. It caused . . . fear. The injuries done Vareena would cause a depth of fear that a simpler, cleaner death would not.

Fear.

And the attack on the Merchant Authority, the near-slaughter in the Merchants’ guildhall, and one isolated spy’s death collapsed together, structure shifting, into one clear picture.

Jester rose, and this time Haval did not gesture him back into his chair.

Instead, the clothier rose as well. The words Jester might have said, Haval now took from him, as gracefully, as bloodlessly, as he had carried all of the questions it turned the stomach to even think of asking.

“Henden,” Haval said. “Henden of 410.” He turned to Teller. “I believe that now would be the time to summon the House Mage.”

Torvan rose. He had not spoken a single word to this point; nor had Arrendas. “I’ll go.”

 • • • 

The date had an effect on every person in the room. On the Captains of the Chosen, one of whom was even now heading for the door; on every member of the den present for this impromptu—but necessary—kitchen meeting. On no one was the effect more pronounced than Finch. Finch had traveled to the Common every day of that Henden. Finch had walked back across the bridge, to the relative sanity of the silence provided by living on the Isle.

Finch still had nightmares in which she was once again sixteen years of age and working with Jarven and Lucille in the Merchant Authority. But in those nightmares, the voices of the tortured dying were voices she recognized. She was, in her nightmares—as she had been in the Henden of 410—powerless.

Facing demons now, she would still be powerless—but not in the same way, please,
Kalliaris
. Never in the same way again.

Jay. Jay, where are you?

There was no answer. But Finch had some experience with both the desperation of the thought and the inevitable silence that followed it. Why? Why now?

She failed to ask the question aloud. “Demons attacked—and attempted to destroy—the Merchants’ Guild. They had limited success—but it was limited in large part because of the Order of Knowledge’s timely arrival. Losses are still being reported; many of the merchants present during the attack are still being treated for various injuries. The fire that gutted the great hall and a large portion of the building is now known to be magical in nature.