Oracle: The House War: Book Six (82 page)

Yes, he thought: the work of Matriarchs. And he had never desired to be one.

 • • • 

Jewel looked up, and up again, and raised voice. “Kallandras! Celleriant! Return to us now!”

16th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

T
HE OFFICE OF THE right-kin was not empty. Teller sat behind the desk once occupied by Gabriel ATerafin. Finch sat on its outer edge, her feet dangling above the floor. She wore a brown dress, one made by Haval; it did not appear to be particularly noteworthy, given his reputation as clothier to the powerful and the wealthy.

Birgide Viranyi occupied one of the chairs to the side of Teller’s remarkably clean desk. Her eyes were ringed with circles; she looked exhausted. As she was not kin, even by the loose standards of the den, Finch didn’t ask her if she required rest, food, or sleep—but it was close. Teller had confirmed Birgide as ATerafin—to Barston’s rigid disapproval. Birgide had been staff for almost no time, in Barston’s opinion, and if she was well-known as a botanist, such esteem was held within the Order of Knowledge, an organization of which Barston did not, in general, approve.

Then again, Barston approved of very little. It was his single most endearing character trait.

The Captains of the Chosen stood to either side of the very closed door. They had listened, expressionless, to every word that had left Birgide’s mouth, and they liked it far less than the men and women present who were
not
responsible for the survival and safety of the right-kin.

Finch had considered calling the entire den to join them for dinner; in the end, she decided against it. Daine was already exposed enough. She trusted Hectore as much as she trusted any outsider—but even the most well-meaning of men could let slip facts which led to disaster. She had seen it happen just often enough in her years at the Merchant Authority; she did not wish to take unnecessary risks.

Arann was of the Chosen. She could not request him
as
Chosen; she could request that he take a night off. But among the ranks of the Chosen, this was a subtle political request—and again, an unnecessary one. She informed the Captains of the Chosen that she would have guests—important guests; she told them who, and even why.

Torvan and Arrendas would decide how to staff the guard shift without either her input or Teller’s—and to offer input without a very good reason was just short of insulting. They did not deserve insult. They were, given their history with the West Wing, unlikely to take umbrage at less than perfectly politic requests—but they heard.

But it was Torvan who made the otherwise outrageous suggestion that the dinner itself be served within The Terafin’s personal chambers. Finch was almost shocked; she kept this to herself far more successfully than Teller did. Jester, however, seemed unsurprised.

“The Terafin has already chosen to entertain Hectore within her personal chambers; she did not consider his presence there to be a threat or a danger.”

“Neither of us are The Terafin,” Teller said, in a voice that held echoes of Barston—and Barston’s stiff disapproval. “The Terafin’s personal chambers—”

“Can be utilized by the regent,” Arrendas said, before Teller could finish.

Birgide’s gaze narrowed; she said nothing. She was probably wishing she were in the gardens, digging in literal dirt, and away from what was fast becoming too political. The silence was beyond awkward.

“They can,” Teller agreed—although it had the texture of argument, another trick of Barston’s. He flipped a page in the open book that occupied the center of an otherwise spotless desk. “But the regency itself is to be decided by House Council vote in the absence of an acclaimed leader. We have a leader; we have not, therefore, brought forward a motion in Council to appoint a regent. Absent that motion, it is beyond presumptuous for any member of the House Council to lay claim to those rooms for the purpose of entertaining personal guests—even guests of note.”

And they knew this, Finch thought, her expression as neutral as Haval’s would have been. She did not understand why they were pushing. The two captains exchanged a long glance; it was Torvan—as it often was—who spoke.

“The fear, at the moment, is that Hectore’s attendant is not human. We are aware that demons can take human form—sometimes literally. We have faced demons before—but if a demon worthy of note or fear is let loose within the manse, the cost will be high. When The Terafin is resident, the cats are present. They are no more natural than demons—and they seem proof against attacks that would kill or cripple most of us.

“The cats, however, are not here. Celleriant is not present. But the House Mage is. He dwells within the chambers of The Terafin at her express permission. If, as Birgide fears, the Araven servant is as dangerous as the demons, APhaniel will know. It is likely that he will intervene. He has become more difficult since The Terafin left; we cannot be certain that he will otherwise honor a request or an invitation to observe your dinner.”

“I am
not
concerned about the Araven servant, as you call him.”

“You should be,” Birgide said quietly.

“The Terafin was not concerned. Had she been, we would handle it differently. You know she’s seer-born,” she added; it wasn’t a question. “You know that she can see demons, regardless of how they’re disguised. Had Andrei been the threat you all fear, we’d
know
.”

Teller coughed, and added, “Finch likes Andrei. She thinks he encapsulates the epitome of service.”

“I think he’s very like Lucille,” Finch agreed. She waited. To her surprise, Torvan did not speak. Neither did Arrendas. She considered the situation with care. “I can’t give you orders, can I?” she asked the captains.

“You are not The Terafin,” Torvan replied.

“The Terafin would tell you that she valued your input. She would also ignore it. If you pressed the point, she would be far less politic.”

“If The Terafin were here, we would not be having this discussion—she would be entertaining in her own chambers.”

“She could entertain in the foyer,” Finch countered, “and you would accept that decision.”

“You are not The Terafin.”

“I’m not the regent, either.” Finch straightened the folds of her skirts. The silence was strained. Finch let it be, for the moment, considering the very near future—and the consequences that awaited her.

“You intend to be regent,” Torvan replied. “The Chosen will support you.”

“Becoming regent is not a simple matter of the support of the Chosen.”

“No,” he agreed. It was not an act of surrender. “But that is not our problem; it is yours. You will face opposition no matter when you choose to declare yourself. The only person in Terafin who could possibly take the regency without open conflict is Teller.”

“I do not want—”

“We know, Finch. But this is beyond the Chosen. It is almost beyond the House.”

Finch exhaled and turned to Birgide. “What,” she asked, her voice developing the faintest of edges, “have you told them?”

Birgide was not accustomed to dealing with patricians; she had said that before, and it was clearly not a lie. “I have permission,” she said, after an awkward pause, “to enter The Terafin’s chambers.”

“From who?”

“The Terafin’s chambers are connected to the grounds at the back of the manse.” It wasn’t an answer. When Birgide realized Finch expected a better one, she said, “the forest, ATerafin. The forest has given me permission. If the Araven servant presents a danger, it is in the forest that he can be confined—if he can be confined at all.

“The power of that forest extends to The Terafin’s chambers. If something happens within those chambers, I can influence it in a way that I cannot within the body of the manse.”

Finch continued to wait. This time, however, Birgide seemed to feel she had finished. “You are not Chosen.”

“No. It is not a position I would ever be offered, and were it somehow offered to me, not a position I could accept. The goals of the Chosen are not my goals, however strongly they overlap. I will make decisions based on the duties I’ve accepted—but it is, in the end, a hierarchy of one, until The Terafin returns. But I am not merely Warden, whatever that encompasses. I am a member of the Terafin Household Staff. If you choose to ignore my warning, and the request of the Chosen, I will do what I can. The decision is, of course, yours.” She bowed.

Finch was not ready—would not be ready for weeks yet—to declare herself regent. She had not yet fully consolidated her position within the Merchant Authority, but the attack on the Authority offices—and the Merchants’ Guild itself—had rendered some of that maneuvering unnecessary in the short term. She rose. “Very well, Captains. I will accept your advice in this. It may be necessary to start a small disturbance in the West Wing.”

Teller signed.

“No, of course not. But it doesn’t matter if they believe it. It matters that there’s some pretext. I’m sorry,” she added—to Teller. “Hectore will arrive for the early dinner hour. He is never late.”

 • • • 

Haval was dressed as a merchant of modest but nonetheless impressive means. Finch had sent the invitation to his store, as it was an off day. She had not expected him to greet it with any enthusiasm, but was certain he would choose to accept. She did warn him that Jarven would likely attend as well.

She was dressed and ready a full half-hour before Hectore arrived; two hours prior to that, she had been conferring with distressed servants. She was not well-versed in the starting of fires; it was not a skill that any of her den possessed. She wanted a fire that was contained enough that it would be guaranteed not to spread, but significant enough that it would allow her to beg use, at the last moment, of The Terafin’s modest dining room.

Haval, true to form, had arrived early.

Finch liked Hannerle a great deal; she found Haval inscrutable. He reminded her of Jarven in some ways, but none of them were comforting. She knew he was working with Jester. She knew Jester resented him. But Jester could also resent the Master of the Household Staff, which Finch thought unfair.

She was surprised when Haval understood, immediately, what was necessary. He offered neither dissent nor approval; he merely asked her to go to her rooms and attend her personal paperwork. He had, of course, chosen which of the dresses she would wear this evening—but he had laid it out; he was not to be her valet.

He was, apparently, to be her fire starter.

The fire itself was perfectly contained: it blackened the table, scorching its fine, oiled finish; it destroyed the tablecloth, and the lace set across its length; it appeared to have singed the carpet in places. It did not, however, spread beyond that. The cosmetic destruction could be easily remedied—but not in scant hours.

Haval then joined her. Jester was already in deep conversation with the visibly distressed servants; their panic, their sense of their own profound failure, was the only thing about the endeavor that made Finch’s heart sink. She was, however, capable of lying—and did; she mimicked perfect, quivering dismay, transferring her guilt about the welfare of the servants into something she could actually use.

Jay would have hated it, but if Jay had been here none of this would be necessary. None. Not the dress she now wore. Not the evening meal she was almost dreading. Haval would be in his apron, and Jester would be out somewhere drinking and looking down his surprisingly straight nose at politics.

“You weren’t surprised,” Finch said quietly to the waiting clothier.

“I am surprised that you acquiesced to the very sensible precaution the Chosen have all but demanded.”

She didn’t ask how he knew. If she trusted him a little bit more, she’d have asked him for his advice before they’d had their quiet meeting in the right-kin’s office.

“Given that you clearly have, some plausible deniability is best.”

Finch nodded.

“The Chosen are concerned purely with safety.”

“Starting a miniature House War is not guaranteed to keep me safe.”

“They are not fools,” he replied.

“Did you know?”

“That the Araven servant was dangerous? Yes.”

“That he was dangerous in a way that even Duvari can’t be.”

“I am not actually certain that I believe that. It is not, however, Araven that concerns me.”

“You don’t want to see Jarven.”

“I imagine I am not alone in that sentiment—but I am here. Jester has spoken to Marrick.”

Finch nodded absently.

“He has also approached the Master of the Household Staff and the man she would otherwise support on Council. There is one difficulty I foresee.”

Finch had seen many. Through the Authority offices, she had attempted to bring at least two of them in line; she was not yet certain whether or not this preliminary attempt had achieved that, but doubted it. They were merchants at heart. “Jarven?”

“Ah, perhaps I should say two. Jarven, however, must be part of any calculations you have undertaken, and in that regard, I believe you are as well-prepared as any could be. What will you do with Haerrad and Rymark?”

“I believe you misunderstand my intent,” she replied. “They are valuable members of the House Council.”

Haval nodded, as if this had been the expected reply. But he smiled. “You are not Jewel.”

“I know. She has gifts that I don’t. I used to daydream about having them, myself.”

“And now?”

“I have very functional and unsentimental daydreams.”

“Oh?”

“I think I stopped at the part where I knew—with absolute certainty—that someone I cared about was going to die, because I knew there was no guarantee they would either listen or believe me. I’m not sure I could live with the guilt—and she has. Ever since we first met.” She exhaled. “If, at the time, our positions had been reversed—I don’t think I’d do what she did.”

“She saved your life.”

“Yes. But when I look back on it now, we were
young
, Haval. We were children. I was her age, but I let myself be sold. If she didn’t have her talent, I’d be dead. And probably grateful for it, in the end. We want what she wants.”

Haval once again inclined his head. “Do you understand why?”

“Yes.”

One brow rose.