Oracle: The House War: Book Six (75 page)

“He has not succeeded yet.”

“No. But Finch isn’t The Terafin. It’s only a matter of time. Yes, I gamble. But there are some stakes I would never put on the table.”

“You are certain of your so-called proof?”

“Yes.”

“And so you will wage war while The Terafin is absent.” Marrick’s expression was devoid of warmth or humor. “Understand that we are all ambitious.”

Jester nodded.

“And we are, in a fashion, cautious. We steel ourselves for war and its many, many losses. Do you think there was no relief when Jewel was acclaimed House ruler? Don’t answer that question; I see from your expression that you do. We were willing to fight. We were willing to risk everything to gain the prize.

“Now you tell me, indirectly, that we will have war, but without the incentive. Participating at all will involve the losses we did not take—but winning gains us very, very little. What do you offer?”

“Let’s go back to what you want. You were all willing to politic to achieve the House Seat, a seat only one of you could occupy. In the event that all four of you were left standing—”

“It would not have happened.”

“—What did you expect to take away from the attempt? If not the seat, what?”

“I wasn’t guaranteed to survive,” Marrick replied. “I didn’t intend to lose.”

“You didn’t have plans for loss?”

“No. I was committed. You are not a fool. You’ve always tried to be wary—even today. I am exactly what you see in front of you, but it’s never been all that I am. Give me a reason to fight this war, Jester, and I will fight it. I did it once, for Amarais. I will never feel for Jewel what I felt for Amarais; I am not, and will never be, her den. I will never be her counselor—she’d be a fool to have me, and her instincts have always been sharper than either of ours.”

Jester hated risks. But he’d come to the table to take them. “Rymark ATerafin wasn’t interested in the Terafin seat.”

One brow rose. Marrick looked amused, but in a condescending way. Jester expected it, but hated it anyway.

“He expected the Empire to fall. He was to take Terafin in order to undermine both The Ten and the Twin Kings. To that end, he allowed demons entry into Terafin. He may have—and this we have no proof for—been responsible for the demon that appeared during the victory parade. Demons are not a matter for Terafin alone—I understand that.

“But Jewel is now the heart of the defense against the coming army of a walking god. What she did on the first day of the Terafin funeral rites, she must do, on a larger scale, when that army arrives.”

“She doesn’t require the Terafin Seat to do that.”

“Yes,” Jester replied, “she does.” Marrick did not look convinced, which was not unexpected.

“I will consider what you’ve said,” Marrick eventually replied. “If I do not choose to join you—and there is every possibility I will not—I will at least commit to neutrality.”

15th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Araven Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

‘‘H
ECTORE,
you will pace a hole in the carpet.”

“The carpets can be replaced.”

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t oversee their replacement.” Andrei lay inclined upon the long recliner. The room was devoid of servants, and Hectore did not have House Guards. Had he, he might have chosen to act with his usual equanimity. Here, however, he had no reason to hide anything.

He glanced, like a nervous mother, at the recliner. “Do not even think of standing. Until our guest arrives, you will
rest
.”

Andrei’s brows gathered briefly, but no rejoinder left his mouth. He was, to Hectore’s eye, pale and exhausted; his skin was not sallow, but seemed, rather, to be almost translucent. The cut that adorned his cheek had healed—as all such injuries always had.

But Andrei was not fully himself, and they both knew it. Hectore headed toward the door.

“You’ve put her off three times,” Andrei said. The recliner creaked slightly as Hectore’s most important servant pushed himself to his feet to follow. “She won’t stand for another; the fourth time, she’ll come with the Magisterium. Or Duvari.”

“You have not fully recovered,” Hectore replied, back to Andrei, hand inches from the door.

Andrei knew better than to lie to him. He knew exactly how little comfort Hectore would take from the attempt. He did not, therefore, make it.

Hectore missed his sarcasm. He missed his complaints, which was more surprising. Traveling through Averalaan without Andrei was like leaving some essential part of himself behind. Andrei reminded him, in a hundred different ways, of who he was.

“That’s not the way it works.” Andrei’s voice drifted closer. “And you know it.” The familiar accusation was as much comfort as Andrei could offer. “You have met and spoken with the guildmaster on a number of occasions. There is no reason to believe that this one will be any more of a disaster.”

“There is every reason to believe it,” was Hectore’s grim reply. He turned. “She was there. The servants—the ones who survived—will forget what they saw. They’ll forget the demon, the fire, the fighting. People do, when things are unpleasant. Sigurne’s life has been the study of the unpleasant. She has spent decades being relentlessly vigilant. She will forget precisely nothing.”

“She has no legal recourse to question you; you have broken no laws.” Andrei coughed and added, “or rather, no laws about which she would have any concern. She is not political.”

“It is not her first choice, no. But she can politic with patricians should she decide it must be done. Can she harm me? No, not directly. She can light fires it will be difficult and taxing to put out. It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“I must ask you to worry less about me.”

“Might as well ask me to stop breathing, while you’re at it. I am telling you now, Andrei, if I find out who summoned those demons I am going to strangle him myself. Eventually.”

Andrei rolled his eyes. “I know who will end up with that task if such information is discovered.”

“Not this time,” Hectore replied. “You can wait your turn.”

Andrei’s smile was quiet, but present. “In the decades I have known you,” he told his erstwhile master, “you have not changed.”

“I like to think I’ve mellowed.”

“And I like to think that you will learn the error of your ways and stop coddling your fifth grandchild. I expect neither are actually true; such is the nature of daydream. I am almost fully recovered. I am not afraid of the guildmaster.”

“Then your version of fully recovered and mine differ significantly. You have never been a fool before.”

“That is not what you have said historically.”

“I said you were persnickety, demanding, and overly organized; I do not recall questioning your wisdom.”

“Your memory is clearly kinder—to you—than mine.”

Hectore chuckled. The tight, bunched lines of his shoulders relaxed. He looked at his oldest servant, remembering how and when they had first met. He had been a younger man; a gambler. But the risks he took were calculated. Andrei had been one such risk.

But no, it was not just that. Hectore was sentimental; he liked, on occasion, to view himself as charitable or even generous. He was aware that a vast amount of delicate ego was involved in such views—but he considered it minor in the overall scheme of human nature.

“You only need be who you are,” Andrei told him.

“And you?”

The answering smile was bitter but resigned. “I only need be what I have been, by your side, for decades. Come. I hear Matteos Corvel in the grand hall.”

 • • • 

Matteos Corvel was standing in the smaller visitor’s room of the Araven manse, at the side of the diminutive Sigurne Mellifas. She was seated almost strategically in the most elegant—and simple—of the arm chairs the room contained. Age, Hectore knew, was often her shield and her excuse; she had been “old, delicate, frail” for two decades. He had been willing to humor her; his belief in her frailty—or lack thereof—being irrelevant. Even had it been relevant, Hectore had manners. People’s lives were composed of various polite fictions; it helped them move through the days. Hectore had, he was certain, many.

There were two reasons to choose the smaller room as the appropriate place to meet. It was well-furnished and well-decorated, it was within easy reach of the kitchens, and it was well defended. In this room, should Hectore feel trusting enough to meet his many rivals or possible allies, very little harm could be done to either the lord of the manor or the room itself.

There were other reasons, of course.

Sigurne made to rise, and Hectore immediately bowed and begged her to sit. “You are a guest in my home,” he said, as she resumed her seat, her left hand on the handle of a very simple cane.

He glanced at Andrei, who took up his customary position by the door. Andrei could, when he chose, disappear while standing in place. He was the consummate servant. Present when needed, wordless, absent—and forgotten—when not required.

Sigurne accepted this, although her glance went immediately to Andrei. So, Hectore thought. His glance did not stray from her once.

“We are grateful for your cooperation in the very difficult and ongoing investigation,” she told him, as he took the chair closest to hers, gesturing for Matteos to seat himself as well. Andrei left his post by the wall, and walked to the liquor cabinet; in this case, it would be entirely for show. Sigurne very seldom drank anything but water—and if Hectore was any judge of her character, today was not to be one of those rare exceptions.

Matteos, however, was willing to indulge in a social drink. Of the two, he looked the more exhausted to Hectore; his eyes were ringed in dark circles and his cheeks looked gaunt, even hollow. If Sigurne was no longer young, Matteos, her junior, appeared to be teetering on the edge of the age that had never consumed her.

“I am, where possible, happy to cooperate,” Hectore replied. It was entirely truthful. Sigurne understood this; she understood, as well, that “where possible” was a large, wide line over which it would be difficult to push the patris of House Araven.

Andrei brought a tray, which he set on the small table; he handed Matteos a drink, and offered Hectore one, as well. For Sigurne, he brought water. He then stepped away, returning to his silent and watchful position against the wall.

Sigurne did not appear to notice. Matteos, however, grimaced.

“You have been a difficult man to reach in the past few days,” the guildmaster said.

“And you have, as is your wont, been persistent. But I am here, now. How may I be of aid?”

“You were always fond of a gentle game,” Sigurne replied. “And had I time, Hectore, I would play.”

“You were never fond of games.”

“We play for different stakes, you and I. I can no longer afford to dally for my own amusement. Your wealth and success are, of course, the envy of many patricians. But among the wealthy and powerful, it is wealth that has been of particular interest.” She smiled. “You have—and have had, for many years—Andrei.” She did not look at the servant. As he was behind Hectore, neither did the Araven patris. “People have asked, often, where you found him. They have traveled to the Domicis to ask for information, as most believe that is his function.

“Their curiosity has never been appeased. Nor would it be,” she added, “if Andrei were, as rumor suggests, from that guild.”

“I should hope not.”

“But he is not, of course. Nor is he
Astari
, or formerly of that group, although his survival has often implied it.”

“There appears to be a great deal of curiosity about a man who is a simple servant.”

She nodded. “Such curiosity has long been idle. The time for that has passed. For my part, I regret any discomfort this may cause.” She glanced at Matteos. Matteos clearly disliked her silent request; it was almost a full minute before he chose to reply, and he spent most of that drinking.

If, however, Andrei was Hectore’s obedient, chosen servant, Matteos was Sigurne’s. He rose, and from the interior of his rumpled, unremarkable robes, he drew a scroll case. It was the color of aged ivory, but that was not what caught Hectore’s attention. The seals did that. He recognized the symbols of the Twin Kings.

When it suited Hectore, he could affect nonchalance; in this case, he considered it unnecessary. He was surprised. He was also not amused. Both had value in what had become a much more difficult negotiation than he had expected. He accepted the scroll case. He then lifted it above his shoulder.

Andrei left the wall. He was almost silent; Hectore knew he had moved because of Matteos Corvel. Sigurne herself did not condescend to notice; nor did she appear to be at all concerned. She did, however, place a hand—gently—on Matteos’ still arm.

Andrei examined the scroll; it took him all of ten seconds. “It is, as you suspect, genuine.”

Matteos did not look outraged—but it was close. Sigurne, however, accepted the cursory inspection as if it were both necessary and expected.

“And the enchantment?”

“It will open for you. There is no other enchantment—beyond the usual restriction of form—placed on the exterior of this case. There are faint traces of magic that imply that the scroll would not otherwise fit; it is possible that you will hear the Kings speak when the scroll itself is in your hands.” He handed the case back to Hectore.

He did not, however, resume his position. He stood behind the chair Hectore occupied as if he were his shadow.

Hectore did not open the case immediately. Instead, he met Sigurne’s benign gaze. “This was unnecessary.”

“That,” she inclined her head, “is the opinion I offered the Kings when asked. The scroll was both enchanted and sealed by me, if you wonder at Matteos’ expression. The Kings however may ask advice—or demand it—without any obligation to heed it.”

“Hectore,” Andrei said, which surprised everyone in the room. His voice was gentle. “Open the case.”

Hectore said—and did—nothing.

“I am not afraid of what it contains.”

“I think,” Hectore replied, “you have far less to lose.” He rose, case in hand. “Are you instructed to wait for a reply?” His voice was deceptively soft.

Matteos Corvel bridled anyway. Sigurne’s hand—which had not, Hectore noted, left his arm—tightened. “I was not sent purely as a messenger; the palace retains men and women whose work that is. It is assumed, however, that you will cooperate with the Kings’ request, and I am here to facilitate that cooperation. If, however, you choose not to do so, I am not empowered to act as the Kings’ agent. I would consider it a great favor if you did not force that role on me.”

“You are very, very good,” Hectore told her, feeling both admiration and a tinge of uneasiness. “Had you desired money or power, it would have been yours. It is not,” he added, to Matteos Corvel, “an insult.”

“The guildmaster is due a measure of respect,” was the tight, but heated, response.

“I have, I trust, given her that.” He considered the consequences of returning the case unopened. They would be high, but not impossible to weather. But he considered, as well, the attack on the Merchants’ guildhall. Dozens of men and women—old rivals, new rivals, and friends—were dead in the wake of an attack that was inconceivable, except perhaps in the darkest of nightmare. The governance of the guild itself had been left to Jarven ATerafin—and that leadership had taken up the majority of Hectore’s time and thought.

He could handle Jarven; he had in the past. But the demons were a battlefield beyond him. They had changed, in one action, the nature of Hectore’s reality. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he told Sigurne.

“No. I don’t. But I have my suspicions. Thus, my advice to the Kings.” She rose as well; Hectore felt a twinge of genuine guilt—but it was not enough to drive him to sit. He wanted to pace. He wanted to throw the case across the room at the nearest wall or fireplace; it was an act of petulant defiance, and it would not harm the message itself. In this room, in front of his guests, he could do neither.

“Hectore,” Andrei said again. Into the silence that followed his spoken name, Andrei added, “you have not failed me. You have never failed me. But you have seen yourself that change is coming.”

“I see no opportunities in this change.”

“And that is unlike you. Come. Even Jarven is excited.”

“Did I not have a rule about mentioning his name in my house?”

“Several, that I recall.”

Hectore glared at his servant in much the way he might have had they been alone. He took each end of the scroll case in hand, and twisted. The seal cracked. No sign of magic followed. He removed the top of the case, handing it Andrei, who accepted it without comment.

The official document was wider than the length of the case, and thicker in diameter, the seals affixed to the bottom of the document adding weight in all senses of that word. Hectore read its contents.

The events of the past month have left a lasting shadow across the city. The loss of the merchant heads of many families have contributed to a shortage of necessary supplies, and people fear a return of the Henden of 410. In the current tense atmosphere, it is of utmost necessity that daily business be conducted in as smooth and reliable a fashion as possible.