Oracle: The House War: Book Six (54 page)

“I disagree.”

“You, my dear, have not been present at the council meetings. Perhaps I will send you in my place.”

She failed to smile in response.

His smile—which was a thin edge of an expression—faded. “Have you chosen to approach Duvari?”

“Word has been carried.”

“By a messenger you trust?”

“By a messenger who has not been compromised, yes.”

“And that is why you are wearing that dress.”

She exhaled. “Yes, Jarven. Tell me one thing.”

“And that?”

“Will the Kings survive if the
Astari
have been infiltrated by demons?”

“Not if their point of entry is Duvari. When will you know?”

“It depends on how clever demons are,” Finch replied. “But they know that we suspect, and some precautions outside of the purview of the
Astari
have been taken. I can only see two routes to take, in this situation.”

“You can see more than two.”

“Given our history with demons, I can see only two that are likely. The first—and the one that we hope for: the demons attack us, in the Terafin manse.”

“And the second is that they attack the Kings.”

“They’ve done as much damage to this city with the attack on the Merchants’ Guild as they could have done with
armies
. More, I think. But it was not subtle; it was bold; loud. They did not expect to fail.”

“They did, however.”

“Yes. But there is an arrogance that assigns failure to the incompetence of others, and not to the competence of the targets.”

“Very well. I concur. They are capable of subtlety. They are capable of perfect mimicry.”

“It’s not mimicry.”

“Oh?”

“They inhabit the bodies of their victims. I don’t believe all demons are capable of this—but those that are can be incredibly effective. They have access to the memories of those victims, although it is not said to be perfect access; they can inhabit a dead body for a day or two, if the victim did not survive.”

“It is not said by who?”

“The Terafin House mage. The mimicry is subtle, yes. But when they cast it aside they do so in the loudest and flashiest way possible. The House mage believes it is almost impossible for the kin to view mere mortals as serious threats.”

“And that is our only advantage?”

“No; we have others. But he considers it a large advantage. Before you make that face at me,
none
of this has been discussed by the House Council. So access to the House Council seat would not materially change the information you now have.”

“I am attempting to manage my resentment in constructive ways,” he replied. “It would have been useful to have this information before the events at the guildhall.”

“Meralonne feels that people are far too prone to panic, and the Kings apparently agree.”

“He is not wrong. Panic, however, is a useful tool when wielded correctly.”

Finch was not surprised by his response. “It is seldom wielded correctly by anyone but demons—and I would prefer that there be some distinguishing, mortal characteristics that divide us.”

He nodded. “It is, in the end, far less harrowing than the Henden of 410. I remember you, then. You seemed so fragile I thought Lucille would actually hit me when I told her I would not see you sent home. Do you honestly think that Duvari himself has been compromised?”

Finch hesitated. “Not yet.”

“Why or why not?”

“Jarven, now is not the time for lessons.”

“All of life is a lesson, Finch, as you should well know. The most valuable things you have learned from me were not explicitly taught; they were derived entirely by observation and experience. I intervened only when I thought the cost of your decisions would be too high—for you. But I am not, now, playing games.” At her expression, he added, “Yes, yes, I realize we use different definitions for those words.

“Tell me.”

“The victims. If multiple people are taken out in an obvious, violent fashion—and if those victims are all
Astari
, it’s possible that Duvari has been compromised, and the
Astari
are being eliminated from the bottom up. But that makes no sense, to me. By doing it, he alerts every person who isn’t compromised. He increases the precautions that must be taken.”

“That is true only if the Kings are the actual targets.”

Finch nodded, lost in thought. “If, however, they are aiming
at
Duvari, the deaths make perfect sense. They isolate him; they isolate the
Astari
; they sow a level of distrust and discord that the
Astari
probably don’t experience often. If Duvari’s
Astari
are paralyzed—” She stopped. Frowned.

Jarven glanced at the corner of the room, where his coat, his hat, and his gloves were neatly put away. “It is time for me to make my way to the Order of Knowledge.”

“The meeting is there?”

“We have been given a lecture hall within the main building until the investigation is done.” He glanced at Finch, who sat quietly in her chair, turning scenarios over and over; examining them for flaws, rating their probability. She looked up when he cleared his throat.

“Apologies,” she said, as she retrieved his coat and his walking stick. Whatever advantage she accrued from her new position, Jarven still expected her to wait on him.

“Finch.”

She looked up.

“Be careful.”

“I could offer you the same advice.”

“First, it is not advice. It is an order. It merely sounds like advice because you have chosen to misinterpret my tone. Second, death—while not to be desired, especially if the death on offer is painful and long—is coming for me anyway. If I sit this out and do nothing, I will merely prolong boredom and ineffectiveness. This is not the case, with you.

“At my age, I an unlikely to find or train new protégées. You are, therefore, my only hope of lasting legacy.”

She handed him his walking stick only after he had donned—with her help—his fussy coat. “You don’t care about legacy, Jarven.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps. I do not like the direction your thoughts have taken in the last five minutes; they make me uneasy.”

13th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

Birgide Viranyi stood in the inner offices of the Royal Trade Commission. The office was only skeletally staffed; the crisis that had, in one evening, damaged the city so badly necessitated Patris Larkasir’s presence in the Merchants’ Guild, and he was old enough—and angry enough—that it was not deemed wise to have him travel alone.

Devon was, of course, by his side. As the man considered most likely to succeed Larkasir in his role with the Trade Commission, he was privy to all of the relevant economic discussions; if he had duties to the
Astari
, they would be left untended in the near future. Devon served the Kings, and the Kings had decided that his work with Patris Larkasir superseded all other duties.

Birgide glanced at her hands and grimaced. There was dirt under her fingernails, and her attempts to remove it had not been entirely successful. Duvari met with people from all walks of life—but in his own way, he was fastidious. He would notice. The man noticed everything.

Her discussion with Jester—and her wordless acceptance of the responsibility laid across her shoulders by, of all things, a
forest
—had had subtle, but immediate effects. She experienced one of them now: she glanced down at the rows of desks, bound on three sides by standing cabinets that served as demi-walls, and saw webbing. It was very fine, and reminded her, on first glance, of the complicated but delicate strands spiders wove.

First glance, however, yielded a second. The strands were not the pale white of webs meant for insects; they were colored, and they shone faintly, from floor to the height of ceiling or cabinet or desk. They had no physical component; she could, with ease, pass through them without causing them material damage. But as she did, they thrummed like struck strings, as if they were parts of an instrumental whole.

Birgide was a botanist, not a bard; if she heard musical notes, she couldn’t make sense of them; she had the suspicion that a song could be played—but she lacked the necessary tools. The notes were pleasant, for the most part; arranging them meaningfully was, at the moment, beyond her.

They did not alarm her. She was almost certain that they implied the presence of relatively normal magic; the Terafin manse was likewise adorned with similar webs. Only in the right-kin’s office did they approach this density; if anything, it was stronger, there.

She had undertaken an informal tour of the Terafin manse, Jester ATerafin by her side. His presence eased her passage; if the Household Staff looked askance, most of their raised brows or stiff lips were directed at the red-haired, flamboyant Jester. She almost faded into invisibility by his side, and because she had, she was free to leave it; to wander, in silence, studying every entrance, every exit, and every hidden door.

They encountered both House Guard and Chosen; Jester was familiar with, it seemed, every member of the Household involved in service. If the guards were not friendly, they were, to Birgide’s eye, less alert—with the exception of the Chosen. They responded to Jester, but they did not lose sight of her. She wasn’t, at this point, concerned.

She asked Jester only a few questions; given his expression, he considered them random, but relatively harmless. And so: she had a view of the Terafin manse that she had never had before. She stopped only once with open concern.

“Where does this lead?” she asked, her hand hovering above a section of wood paneling in one of the function rooms.

Jester frowned. “The back halls, normally.”

She raised a brow.

“Have I offended?”

“In general, you put more effort into your evasive answers.”

He laughed. “This is going to be a problem,” he told her.

“Your evasiveness?”

“My lack of same. You are indirectly correct; I tell the truth so seldom I am unaccustomed to putting much effort into its delivery. Truths,” he added, “are seldom interesting, and people misuse them so frequently.”

“It is to be hoped that The Terafin does not share this assessment.”

“The Terafin lives in a mound of political paperwork while spineless rats nibble at her skirts. No, as you suspect, she does not. All attempts to shift her position with regards to truth have failed utterly; she is honest or she is silent. She is not,” he added, an odd smile changing the shape of his mouth, “silent often enough.”

“She is not terribly chatty,” Birgide replied.

“Why are you asking about this door?”

“I do not believe it currently leads to the back halls. Would it be safe to test that theory?” When Jester failed to answer, she turned from her inspection to see that his skin—unfortunately consistently too pale—was a shade of something closer to gray than white. “I will assume that the answer is no.”

Jester nodded. “You will have to excuse me,” he said, offering her a perfunctory, distracted bow. “If I may leave you here, allow no one to enter this door. If someone exits it, that’s fine—but they are not to return to the back halls the same way.”

“Where are you going?”

“To summon the House Mage,” he replied, his words flying over his shoulder as he began to sprint down the gallery.

“Wait!” She turned toward one of the House Guard. He was perhaps a year or two older than Birgide. His expression had hardened, his eyes had narrowed, his skin had paled. Whatever had caused Jester to seek the House Mage, this man understood.

Jester cursed. To Birgide’s surprise, he cursed in street Torra, and he didn’t scruple to do so under his breath. “Have you got this?” he asked the guard.

The guard’s nod was grim. “Get the mage—I’ll make sure no one uses this entrance until it’s dealt with.”

 • • • 

Birgide was aware of Meralonne APhaniel’s existence. As a function of her role within the
Astari
and her placement—albeit it to study the finer points of botany—she could name, without fail or pause, every First Circle mage within the Order’s active rolls. She could also name all of the Second Circle, as well. Knowledge of, however, was not acquaintance; being talentless, she was generally considered a nonentity as far as mages were concerned. The magi were cautious to the point of paranoia about each other. They were not as careful around people like Birgide, whose utter lack of magical talent meant she would never be a threat to the prominence of their position in the only important hierarchy.

Meralonne, however, was different. Even among the Order’s many magi, he was unique. He had been, as far as Birgide could determine, a member of the Order of Knowledge for decades; he was, in theory, older than Sigurne. No one was willing to acknowledge this; Birgide had never understood why.

But Duvari had cut short that avenue of research—which had raised flags that Birgide was not aware, until that moment, had even existed.

Meralonne APhaniel was the Terafin House Mage. She considered this even as she followed Jester at a run. She was surprised when he came to a skidding halt in front of The Terafin’s personal chambers. Two of the Chosen guarded these doors, a clear indication that the rooms were not occupied by The Terafin herself.

“We’ve got a door problem,” Jester said to the woman on the left, without preamble. She nodded, stepped to one side, and allowed Jester to yank the doors open. Pages often performed that function for guests and important dignitaries; clearly, Jester was neither.

“She’s with me,” he added, as he stepped through the doorway.

Birgide had never been invited into The Terafin’s personal quarters; nor did she ever expect to be so. She hesitated for a second and Jester disappeared. Literally. The doors appeared to open into a high-ceilinged library. He was not, however standing beneath that ceiling; nor was he walking across the library.

She glanced at the silent Chosen. Neither of the two, man or woman, appeared to be alarmed. They were well enough trained that alarm would be almost invisible, but Birgide detected no unusual tension. No surprise.