“Very well.”
It was interesting to watch Birgide and Haval interact. Haval treated her as a subordinate, and she responded as if he were correct. There was no resentment between them, only a fragile trust. He accepted her competence without question; she accepted his in the same way. Haval’s trust made sense to Jester; Birgide’s did not.
But he had promised to give up on expecting anything sensible to come out of this forest.
The golden fox had once again made his way to Jester’s feet as Haval and Birgide continued their not-quite-conversation beneath a tree of fire. He nudged Jester’s left shin with his head as if he were a cat, and Jester knelt.
“I will travel with you for the day,” the fox surprised him by saying.
“I was going to go back to bed.”
“No, you were not. You were going to speak with Finch.” The fox leaped into the lap Jester’s legs made, and Jester grimaced. It wasn’t safe to treat ancient, wild forces as if they were house cats, but in this case, the ancient wild force seemed to—politely, unlike other loud, wild creatures—demand it.
“Yes, I was going to speak with Finch.”
“I wish to visit her. She will not come to the forest, no matter how loudly we call her. We have sent invitations,” he added, “but she ignores them. We are concerned that perhaps she is deaf.” He said this with utter sincerity, and for one long moment, Jester felt the cold, ancient and inevitable, beneath the veneer of warmth and charm. The fox was not, he thought, like the cats; they could rage and threaten and scream; they could be insulted at any passing event at any moment in time. But they forgot quickly.
He lifted his gaze—only his gaze—to Haval, who was watching them both. Haval’s smile was rueful, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He nodded.
Jester did not want to take the fox to Finch. “She’s not ignoring you,” he told the golden creature. “You have the Warden. We have Finch. To us, the merely mortal, the forest and the city are distinct. Separate. Finch guards The Terafin’s interests in the city.
“Without you, Eldest, The Terafin will not have a home to return to.” He hoped this was empty flattery, but he meant it regardless. “Without Finch, the home she returns to will be standing—but it won’t be hers, or ours, anymore.”
The fox rumbled. Jester shook with the depth and force of the sound, contained entirely in his arms. And yes, the fox was ill-pleased. Jester glanced at Haval, at Haval’s dark eyes, and wondered if the clothier chose his position nearest the tree for a practical reason. But Haval nodded once again.
Jester acquiesced. “Can you even leave the forest?”
The fox chuckled. “I never leave the forest. No more than the Warden or the Councillor.” He nodded to Birgide and Haval in turn. “And you, Jester? You do not leave it either. After we have spoken to Finch, I will go wherever you choose to take me. I have some desire to see the streets of the city our Lord finds so compelling.”
“Will people see you? Or will I be talking to an invisible person the entire time?”
“Which would you prefer?” the fox asked with interest.
“It is not my preference that matters; I will change my behavior if it is required. It is your choice entirely, Eldest.”
The small body—which had not felt tense in his arms—relaxed. “Yes,” he said. “They will see me.”
“You won’t find the city impressive,” Jester warned him, rising, the impossibly soft and beautiful creature in his arms.
“Will I not?”
“Celleriant didn’t.”
“Ah. He will before the end . . . if he survives.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“It will be a battlefield unlike any you have ever seen, and the young hunter revels in war.”
Chapter Three
20th day of Morel, 428 A.A.
Merchant Authority, Averalaan
THE DAY HAD BEEN hectic, haunted in things great and small by the absence of the merchants, Terafin and otherwise, who had not survived the demon attack upon the Merchants’ guildhall. The building itself looked new—perhaps even better than new—a symbol of the resilience of commerce in the aftermath of war. But the people, unlike the great stone facade, would not return. They would be—slowly—replaced.
James Varson had been promoted in the absence of the entire chain of command above him, victims of a different attack who would also never return. He had not become the head of the Merchant Authority’s operations—he was too low-born for that and had not had the fortune to be adopted by one of The Ten—but it was clear that it was James who had kept the Merchant Authority running. Inasmuch as the Merchant Authority had a ruler, James Varson was its regent.
As Finch ATerafin was regent to The Terafin in her absence.
Her tenure as head of the Terafin operations in the Merchant Authority had immediately become a source of conflict for the House Council; she was regent. Her absence from the House—a necessity for the duties the merchant operations required—was fast becoming untenable.
Had the conflict been practical, she would have accepted the censure with humility. It was not. It was almost entirely political in nature. Haerrad was the point of that formation; he was the driving force that intended to split her from the Merchant Authority. And in any other circumstance, Finch would have acceded as gracefully as Haerrad allowed. He was not, however, a man to allow anyone else a moment of grace.
He had not fought Finch’s claim on the regency; he had supported the right-kin’s council nomination. The disappearance of Rymark—and the rumors that surrounded that disappearance—had severely weakened the Rymark-led faction within the council, but Finch was not foolish enough to believe difficulty from that quarter was over. And she had forbidden Haerrad one thing. He was not to kill those who were involved. If there were to be deaths, the decision would be Finch’s.
Finch was regent.
Haerrad was not, however, Finch’s chief concern at the moment. Not even when she left these offices.
There was a knock at the door; it was Lucille’s. Finch spoke, and the doors opened; she could see the moment the older woman’s face creased in several frowns’ worth of lines. Lucille carried tea. The tray was bulky, and although Lucille was not a small woman, it was not easily maneuvered in one hand. Because she was Lucille, she waited until she had entered the room—and more important, the door had closed behind her—before she opened her mouth.
“You were carrying the tray,” Finch offered, in as meek a voice as she dared.
“So was the last assassin.” Lucille came to the side table, set the tray down, and marched back to the door. “What have I told you? We spent a small fortune on the brass.” The literal brass. She jabbed her finger at the handles that adorned the doors. “And small is relative.”
Finch poured her own tea as she listened to a lecture she’d heard a dozen times in far fewer days. The act of pouring tea calmed her, but it brought back a brief memory of Ellerson—and that was never helpful. The tea was served—was always now served—in the expensive cups. Finch liked them, while hating the necessity. But they had saved her life twice; they were necessary.
“Finch?”
She looked up. Lucille’s arms were crossed, her lips thinned. “Are you watching?”
“Yes, Lucille.”
Lucille reached out and gripped the door handles. She did not immediately burst into flame; nor did any part of the door, the carpet, or the painting to the left of the doors.
“I see. You are not a demon.”
Lucille’s lips twitched at the regent’s tone. “I don’t want to sound like Jarven,” she began.
“But I trust too easily?”
“Yes. You trust me. You can. Even Jarven doesn’t badger you into suspicion where I’m concerned.” Jarven did, and had, but Finch felt no need to correct Lucille. “But Haerrad was not himself.”
“Himself is quite deadly and treacherous enough.”
“Yes, well. You are to make certain everyone who ente
rs the room touches—”
“The doors, yes. Or the carpet runner.” That was new as well. Finch had suggested the desk; Jarven declined; the desk was too close to Finch or Jarven, had either been seated.
“I could strangle Jarven,” Lucille muttered. It had been the most common Lucille phrase spoken in this room since Finch had assumed the regency. To be fair, it had been a fairly frequent comment before then.
“Don’t, please.”
“It won’t make much difference to your workload these days. He’s never here.”
“He has been overseeing the Merchants’ Guild, Lucille. He is even, I’m told, effectively leading it.”
“And if you believe that, you are clearly underslept.”
“Jarven was not responsible for the regency,” Finch continued. “That was, in its entirety, my own decision.”
Lucille exhaled. She looked at the painting on the wall—not at Finch. “I have been at my desk in the Merchant Authority’s operations for a very long time.”
Finch nodded.
“I know merchants. I know sharks. For the most part, the sharks are easier to deal with. But Jarven in the old days—Finch, you didn’t see him. He was a force of nature. He was like a summer storm, a perfect sunrise or sunset, a perfect, clear night. If Jarven chose to engage in a conflict, there was no question in my mind that he would be victorious; if we engaged in bets, we bet on the length of time it would take, or how many would fall before he claimed his victory.”
Finch had heard variants of this story before; Lucille was not her only source. And for the most part, the comments were made with a fondness, a nostalgia, that implied that the worst or most terrible of the danger was in the past.
Finch rose, set her teacup aside, and moved toward where Lucille stood. “Do you believe he will hurt me?” she asked.
Lucille didn’t even look shocked at the question, and Finch saw that the woman upon whom the Merchant Authority depended was afraid. It was unsettling. “I can’t understand what his game is, or I would be able to answer the question. But, Finch—I have not seen him like this for decades. I am worried.”
Finch exhaled. “So am I. But I’ve never seen him like this. I believe we’re not the only people who are worried, either.”
“Assassination attempts?”
“Possibly.”
Lucille snorted. “I’ve never worried about Jarven’s life. Just his dignity.”
“I,” Finch replied, “have never worried about either—but dignity where I grew up had a very different meaning.”
“Oh?”
“No begging, no prostitution. I believe, even at his absolute worst, Jarven could manage not to do either.”
Lucille’s lips twitched again; she held on to worry for another half breath, and then grinned. “If he hadn’t scooped you up, I would have.”
“I could never run this office the way you do.”
“Not the way I do, no. But you could run it. There’s steel in you that most don’t see.”
Finch nodded, aware—as Lucille was aware—that Jarven had.
• • •
She managed two meetings with James Varson, one official, one less so, and one meeting with Andrei, shorn of Hectore, but stiff with a high-class servant’s dignity; she was visited by a member of the Order of Knowledge, a man named Matteos Corvel; she was visited by a golden-eyed daughter of the Mother, who wished to beg audience with her on her parent’s behalf.
She had a missive from Haerrad—he seldom set foot in the Authority offices in person—to her right, an investigative report about missing persons to her left, and beneath that, a demand for compensation, and a list of cargo manifests, itemized and in her opinion largely fabricated, when she heard the door.
It wasn’t Lucille, or rather Lucille’s knock, and she knew who it was before the door fully opened. Jester.
Jester, she thought, carrying something that looked, from this distance, like a golden-furred cat. The cat in question lifted its head as Jester stepped across the threshold, shifting his hold to close the door. The creature wasn’t a cat. It was a fox.
She had seen it once before.
There was a tightness in her breath that not even arguments with Lucille could cause as she met the creature’s large, unblinking eyes. They appeared to be lustrous gold from this distance. They were also narrowed.
Finch had looked into the eyes of gods—not often, and not for long—before. These eyes reminded her of those. But gods were confined to the heavens and the Between, the place to which they summoned mortals when they wished to converse in person. The fox? It was held almost cradled in Jester’s arms.
“Finch,” Jester said, in a tone that implied den-sign would have been more appropriate. His hands, however, were occupied.
Finch was not at all certain that den-sign would be wise, and she was certain that even had they chosen to speak with the silent gestures the den had developed in their youth, the fox would understand it all. And would understand that they had attempted to exclude him.
“Finch,” the fox said, before she could gather enough of her thoughts to attempt to address the creature in a fashion it would consider appropriate.
Released from the need for words, she bowed. It was not a shallow bow, and it wasn’t short; there was nothing perfunctory about it. She allowed herself one deviation from total obeisance; she did not wait to be told to rise. But she felt the weight of that lack of permission across the whole of her back as she unbent.
Jester seemed confused.
Finch met the eyes of the golden fox and held them through the discomfort of doing so. It wasn’t a staring contest. Although she—and the rest of the den—had had some training because the noisy, messy, chaotic cats loved them, she understood that the fox was not like those cats, except in one way. He was wild and ancient and inhuman.
He deserved respect.
He deserved fear.
She had no illusion, meeting his eyes, that his size or his shape mattered, and she knew that even if he was not in his element—the hidden forest was not the Terafin offices—his was the greatest power present.
“Eldest,” she said, inclining her chin gravely.
“I wished to see what keeps you from us,” the fox told her. He jumped lightly down from Jester’s arms; Finch thought the floor trembled as he landed. Foxes were not humans; their expressions were limited by the shapes of their jaws, their eyes, noses. But she understood as he landed that he was both angry and slightly disgusted. He did not care for the feel of these floors beneath his paws.
She was afraid, for one held breath, that he would change them.
“This box,” he said, “is small and airless.”
She went immediately to the windows—windows that were enchanted and were not meant to be open—and flung the curtains back. She struggled to open the latches, and almost gave up. It was Jester, stepping in to join her, who managed to force them.
“Yes, Eldest,” she said, turning back to the fox. “It is both of those things.”
“There are too many mortals here.”
“You are now in the heart of the city’s commerce. Some say the Empire’s commerce. Yes, there are many mortals here. I am one of them. Jester is another.”
“And why are these mortals of more significance to you than we are?” Before she could answer, he continued, padding across the carpet and crushing the pile beneath paws that shouldn’t have had the weight to do so, “We have been calling you. Could you not hear us?”
Finch frowned. “Calling me?”
The fox, tail swishing, lifted a head to stare at her. He seemed to be assessing her words, and he sniffed, as if those words had a scent he could discern.
Finch had been trained by Jarven. Lies did not enrage her. She was far better at lying than Teller—and everyone was better at lying than Jay. But she did not and would not lie to a god, and she did not lie to the fox. She didn’t think such lies would ever be successful, and where a lie was guaranteed to fail, silenc
e—or honesty—was better.
But she needed no lie. She said, “I have not been in the hidden forest since the day The Terafin came—and left it.”
“We are aware of that. It is why we have called.”
“How could I hear you if I haven’t entered the forest?”
The fox seemed perplexed. He walked quickly to Finch, and sniffed her feet, moving in circles around her and batting the skirts of her confining dress with his tail. “Do you feel no desire to enter the forest? Do you feel no need for its safety and its privacy?”
The fox was not the only person—if person was the right word—in the room who was now confused. “Yes,” Finch finally replied, “I do. I want to search it from top to bottom for Jay. I want to walk through it to Carver—wherever he is. I want to stand beneath the burning bowers of the tree of fire, because I am cold, and I am tired.” All of these words were weighted with truth, anchored by it.
Jester put a hand on her shoulder—but gently, lightly; he did not grip.
“Then why do you not come?”
“I can’t. This box, as you call it, is the heart of my power. But it is not like yours. If I leave it, if I desert it now, I will lose it. Someone else will find it empty, and they’ll move in.”
The fox said, a shrug implied in its tone, “Then let them have it. It cannot be important. There is almost nothing here.”
“Almost?”
“A faint scent. An echo of power, so tiny it could not be considered power in its own right.” He looked up, and up again, waiting. And Finch, who had served Jarven at his most querulous for over a decade, knelt and lifted the fox in her arms.
He was surprisingly light, almost weightless; house cats weighed more. And smelled worse, in Finch’s opinion. She bent her nose into the fur at the top of his head and inhaled deeply. And she smelled, oddly, honey and corn and fire. She felt warmth. She felt peace and the promise of rest. She was so tired of assassins and death and the need to think of both almost constantly.
“You are cruel,” she told the fox.
Firstborn Page 8