House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

“The Merchant Authority,” Jarven said, when Lucille failed to appear with his afternoon tea, “is an interesting place. It, like the outer office, is busy. There is probably more attempted crime in the Authority than there is in the rest of the holdings combined.” His eyes twinkled, his lips curving in a smile framed by so many lines it must have been a common expression.

  Finch doubted the truth of those words, but she refrained from argument. She was good at that.

  “But it’s a subtle crime,” he continued, as if hearing what she didn’t say. “It generally involves no swords and no obvious violence; what violence there is usually occurs well away from the Authority building itself. Money is here,” he added. “Money is the foundation of power. Men—and women—want power. What they are willing to do to obtain it tells you everything about them that you need to know.”

  In spite of herself, she was interested. “If there’s no violence and no threat of violence, what do you mean?”

  “Robbery doesn’t require a sword—or ten. Not here. It requires clever wits, steel will, and a very good eye for paperwork. Not more and not less. More can be won and lost over a desk such as this than exchanges hands anywhere else in the Empire. To such a desk, then, people bring their best. And their worst. They hide their desperation. They make their offers; they make their veiled threats.

  “If violence is offered, it will be in support of those veiled threats, but the threats themselves are never explicit. Money is not romantic,” he added. “It does not feature prominently in our legends or our stories. But without it, whole empires fall. Armies need to be paid and fed, after all.”

  She thought about this. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “No, you probably don’t. But you will. Come,” he said, and rose. He didn’t walk far, but he did walk to the shelves that seemed to be a feature of any Terafin office. He pulled a book from that shelf, and he returned to his desk, but this time he positioned his chair to one side, inviting Finch to join him.

  He opened the book.

  Finch paled. It wasn’t full of words—it was full of numbers. Those numbers, written in a neat and tidy hand, went on for rows, separated by lines. “I’m sorry,” she said, her disappointment clear. “I don’t understand math very well.”

  He raised a pale brow. “Well, I imagine Lucille will do something about that,” he said, as if her ignorance was, like any office fire, a thing that Lucille could launch herself against. “But you’ll have to imagine, for a moment, that you do understand them, because numbers tell a story.”

  “A story?”

  He nodded, and his smile reappeared. “At base, simple numbers tell what many would consider a simple story. For instance,” he said, rising again and retrieving another book, “take these.”

  They were, to Finch’s eye, more numbers. But there was something about Jarven at this moment that made her look more carefully.

  “This tells you something. This column, you’ll note, is marked.”

  She did. There were words there, on the left. She looked at them. Housing. Food. Clothing. There were a few words that she didn’t recognize, but for the most part, the words there were fairly common.

  Watching her, his smile deepened. “Yes! You see. These are the expenses without which you have a very difficult life. You require a roof over your head, food in your stomach, and clothing. At the very least. There is some mention here of education expenses, and some that are more social in function—but at base? These few are necessary.

  “However,” he continued, “this column and that one must balance. The expenses—the necessities—cannot be met without some form of income.

  “These people? They lead a very wealthy life, at least on the surface. Yes, those are gold coin figures. But the income that went against those expenses was significantly less. What does that tell you?”

  “They were going to starve sometime if they didn’t stop spending money?”

  “Very good.” He closed the book. “It also tells you that they had at least one child—education expenses, and also that particular ball—and that they had a very elaborate house and a very elaborate set of grounds. As I said, this is simple.”

  To Finch, it didn’t seem entirely simple, but she could grasp it. After all, what had the den struggled to do? Keep a roof over their heads. Clothing that fit on their backs. Food, when they could afford it.

  “But this book,” he said, turning back to the first, “tells an entirely different, and more subtle, story. It is complicated, and in the telling, many small things can be forgotten; it is in those small things that our crimes are often found.”

  The door opened. Lucille stood in its frame, a tea tray in her large hands. The man who had opened the door bowed to Jarven and then got out of the way.

  Lucille snorted. “Jarven,” she said.

  He raised a brow.

  “Don’t confuse the girl before she even starts.”

  “I was hardly—”

  “I recognize that book.”

  He grimaced. But he took the tea and said to Finch, “Perhaps another day, Finch, if you’ve time to keep an old man company.”

  Lucille snorted again. “All right, out you go, Finch; wait for me in the office.”

  “How long were you listening?” Jarven asked. “Oh, do sit down, Lucille.”

  Lucille, whose arms were folded across her chest now that the hazard of tea had been deposited with the senior Terafin official, said, “I’m fine on my feet. And I was listening for long enough. A good girl?”

  Jarven laughed. “If you could only see your expression.”

  “I’m happy to know it’s amusing to someone. Was that entirely necessary?”

  “Not entirely, no. Sit, Lucille. A man of my age—”

  “Stuff your age,” Lucille replied. But she did take a chair. “What did you think?”

  “I think the girl was born in, and of, the inner holdings,” he replied. “But she didn’t lie to you—she is living, with several other children her age, in the West Wing of the Terafin manse. They’ve caused a bit of a stir among the servants,” he added.

  “Snobbery?”

  “Oh, tush, Lucille, you are so cynical.” He waved a hand. “They have made a small network of friends among the serving class, and they confer with one of the Chosen from time to time. Finch also visits the healerie. What Finch failed to mention to you—and to me, I admit, but I think it due to the lack of understanding of its significance—is that The Terafin hired a domicis to attend them all.”

  Lucille whistled.

  “If The Terafin hired a domicis for them,” he added, “she is serious about at least their short-term future in Terafin.”

  “Which means we’re going to have to take her.”

  “It would be advisable, in my opinion.” He sipped tea noisily. “If it were just a matter of idle hands and the need to keep them busy, I feel The Terafin would have sent the girl to the healerie; she has the temperament for it.”

  Lucille, who had met Alowan in her time, nodded. “She does. But . . .”

  “But?” Jarven’s expression was sharp as a razor.

  “They obviously sent her to here to toughen her up. That girl cringes as often as she breathes, and ‘I’m sorry’ are the first words out of her mouth when she opens it. She wouldn’t get much toughening up in the healerie, not under Alowan.” She was silent for a moment. “She does live with her den, then?”

  “Yes. I think the girl capable of lying,” he added, “when she feels the need. I do not think, however, that she is adept at it. She does seem to lack ambition,” he continued, “but it is just possible, given the current makeup of my office, that this lack is not the detriment it could be.” He raised a brow.

  Lucille frowned. “Meaning?”

  “She is unlikely to have any grand plans for the future that clash with yours.” He set the cup down. “She will fit in here, I think. If you can manage not to hover over her like a nervous mother.”

  At that, Lucille redde
ned slightly. “She’s just a slip of a girl.”

  “Yes, a girl who is kind enough to listen to the babbling of dotards,” he replied, grinning broadly. “What she needs to learn is not insignificant if she is to function well, but she has passed any test I might offer her.”

  “She listened to your ‘stories.’ ”

  “Ah, no. That was pure self-indulgence. I think she will benefit from her exposure to you, and I think her addition to the office staff will not harm the overall tone. She will,” he added, watching Lucille, “fit in.”

  Lucille snorted.

  “Besides which, you liked her. Don’t bother to deny it.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Good. It is my suspicion that The Terafin intends for her to learn—by this experience—some of the inner workings of the House finances. It will certainly,” he added with a grimace, “be demystifying.”

  “So you think she might be here for the long haul.”

  “I think it possible. With The Terafin things are not always predictable, but predictability is often dull and uninteresting. Let us accept her, and see how she does; it may have good consequences for the office in the future.”

  “Very well. I have one condition, however.”

  Jarven raised a white brow.

  “You are not to continue to play the dotard, Jarven. Have a care for your dignity.”

  He laughed dryly. “I’ll have you know,” he told the woman on whom the office depended, “that I was enjoying our little chat. Besides which, it would be good to watch her and see how long it takes her to catch on.” He raised a hand as Lucille’s less than happy expression soured further. “I will, however, agree to your condition.”

  “You’re in,” Lucille told Finch when she at last left Jarven’s inner office. Finch had found a seat for herself, tucking her legs beneath her to lessen the possibility that someone running from one end of the room to the other might trip over her feet.

  “The pay’s not much to start,” she added. “And you start early tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  “What will I be doing?”

  “Anything and everything that needs doing. I’ll have a runner sent to the manse; you’ll need to start learning some basic numbers there, and you’ll have to do it on your own time.” She held out her hand.

  Finch stared at it for a moment and then offered up her own. Lucille’s engulfed it.

  “I’ll send for a carriage,” Lucille added. “It’ll take you back to the manse.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think Torvan’s waiting outside.”

  Lucille frowned. “Torvan?”

  “He’s one of the Chosen. He was sent to escort me.”

  “Torvan. Torvan. Sounds familiar. Sent to escort you?” she added.

  Finch nodded.

  To her surprise, Lucille marched to the wide, doubled doors and opened them. “You!”

  Leaping up from her chair, Finch scurried after her, remembering to close her mouth.

  Torvan ATerafin, standing at the head of the other three men, tendered Lucille a bow. It wasn’t even all that shallow. “ATerafin,” he said.

  “Don’t start with me. You’re responsible for our Finch, are you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you walked here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They sent you here on foot?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lucille frowned. “Well, take a carriage back.”

  “Lucille—” Finch began.

  “Don’t interrupt, dear. I don’t intend for you to walk from the manse to the Common every day.”

  “But I—”

  “Don’t argue either.” She glared at Torvan, who seemed as respectful and impassive as ever. “The carriage will meet you at the front steps,” she told him.

  He nodded.

  “I’m due back in the office,” she added to Finch. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Having made whatever point she intended to make, she now retreated. The doors closed at her back.

  Torvan turned to Finch. “Well,” he said, looking down at her. “You seem to be unscathed.”

  Finch almost laughed.

  “You won’t have to worry about a misstep in that office,” he added. “At least, not if that was anything to go by. She obviously thought well of you.”

  “She’s—”

  “And before you think her good opinion is all that common,” he continued, “let me assure you it’s not. Lucille ATerafin is famed throughout the House. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  But Finch cleared her throat. “Can we—can we take a detour?”

  “A detour?”

  She nodded.

  “To do what?”

  “I want to visit the farmers’ market.”

  He glanced at the other guards and then shrugged. “It’s my head she’ll have when we fail to take her carriage.”

  “Carriages don’t move all that fast in the Common,” Finch pointed out.

  “I don’t think Lucille is going to care.”

  Chapter Eight

  7th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  The Common, Averalaan

  IF TORVAN WAS SURPRISED at the direction in which Finch headed, he said nothing. Nor did the other House Guards; their formation altered only slightly, but they looked neither bored nor scandalized; with the single exception of Torvan, not one of them had spoken to her at all today.

  The Merchant Authority became a fancy block of stone in the distance; the merchant shops, with their expensive windows, their permanent signs, and their private guards, slowly receded as well, passing windows becoming less ornate and less shiny as they walked. Finch had little experience in shops of this kind; what they sold—and they sold a variety of things—the den had never been able to afford.

  It wasn’t, therefore, this part of the Common that reminded her of home, and if she had daydreamed of wealth, it had mysteriously come hand-in-hand with leisure. With, she thought, as the roads narrowed, becoming more crowded by the yard, acceptance.

  Was that the point of the daydreams? Had she imagined that wealth would somehow convey a sense of worthiness? Maybe. You’re not rich, not yet, she told herself firmly. It happened to be true.

  But weeks spent in House Terafin had dulled the edge of hunger, and the clothing that she now wore must have come from one of those very fancy shops. Or at least the cloth did; all of the panels matched. All of the time she’d spent standing while Helen ordered her about, taking measurements and chatting—or complaining about her son—had never produced a dress like this one; it had produced, instead, tunics and broad leggings. The fabrics were patchwork, the detritus of the various jobs that Helen had taken that paid real money.

  Yet for all that, Finch had been at home in that clothing.

  She’d been at home in the Common that now surrounded her, its open stalls, with faded flags and more faded canopies, peopled by merchants who’d probably learned at birth how to make themselves heard over the din of a crowd—and other like-minded merchants.

  Glancing at Torvan, she said, “You’ve been here before?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. I’m a guard.”

  “You’re one of the Chosen.”

  “True. But the Chosen are part of the House Guard. We don’t tend to have much custom for the fancy shops; we don’t attend balls or events dressed in anything but our uniforms.” He shrugged. “The food is pretty much the same, the market over. It’s cheaper here.”

  “It’s a lot more crowded, here.”

  He nodded. “Which, for someone with more money than time, is a distinct disadvantage. You’re not shopping for food?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “Well, if you listen to Lucille, I need it,” she replied with a grimace. Then, realizing what had just fallen out of her mouth, she added, “She’s nice, Torvan, and I liked her. But she’s—”

  “She makes a mother bear in cub season look calm and reasonable in comparison?” H
e laughed.

  “She knows what she’s thinking, and she shares.”

  He laughed again, and she thought she saw a faint grimace on the face of one of the other guards.

  “But no, I’m not here to shop for food.”

  “What are you here for?”

  She shook her head as they cleared the street and came into the wide circle around which farmers with varying levels of seniority had set up their wagons and portable stands. “I’m here,” she told him, trying to see through the weaving wall of crowd, “to say hello to someone. Oh, there he is, and there’s his daughter!”

  She left him, then. The one advantage to being a size that clearly made Lucille worry about both her physical and mental health was that the crowds didn’t really get in her way. She knew how to move through them, and even a month or two in the fancy manse on the Isle hadn’t taken that from her.

  “Finch!” Farmer Hanson’s eyes widened. So did his hands, which was unfortunate, as he was holding a customer’s rather full basket. He caught it before it fell; it would have fallen into his produce. Given the season, there wasn’t much chance that the vegetables would be damaged by the fall, but people could be picky. She knew this because it was one of his common complaints.

  “Girl, come around the back here, let me look at you!”

  She smiled and instantly did as bid; his sons managed, although they were also busy, to get out of her way before their father could nag them. Even his daughter smiled, which was such a surprise Finch almost hesitated. You didn’t see a smile on that woman’s face every day. Or ever, really.

  Farmer Hanson enfolded her in a bear hug before he pulled back to look at her. “That’s a very pretty dress,” he said. Something about the way he said it felt wrong.

  “It’s not mine,” she told him quickly, and then, seeing that that wasn’t quite the right thing to put him at his ease, added, “Jay’s working for The Terafin.”

  His eyes, which had widened upon catching sight of her, rounded for just a second. But his face lost the odd expression. “For The Terafin?”

  She nodded. “She’s been so busy,” she added, “we hardly ever see her.”