House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “The most significant: On the day that Jewel Markess arrived, an assassination attempt was made upon The Terafin.”

  Finch nodded and swallowed.

  “Jewel Markess apparently interfered in time to save The Terafin’s life; she had the Chosen summon the mage, and the mage arrived in time. How accurate is this gossip?”

  Finch felt he already knew, but he’d asked politely, and he waited for her reply. “It’s true,” she told him quietly.

  “It is odd that the Chosen would seek the service of the magi in this case; it would take time, among other things. I have assumed—and again, I have not taken the trouble to confirm—that the assassin was either a mage or had some magical device that only a mage could counteract.”

  Finch said nothing.

  Jarven smiled. It was not a friendly smile, but it was not a cruel one either. “I assume that you know very little of House Cordufar. It is a Merchant House. What you know, you did not learn in my office; you’ve not been here long enough. Let me then make an educated guess. You’ve heard of the House in your time at the manse, and you’ve heard of it solely through your den leader. Her business is not clearly known, but she works on matters of import to The Terafin.

  “And if you have heard of House Cordufar, there is some suspicion that clouds it within the House.” He lifted a hand. “Which does not entirely explain why you wish the contract signing to be delayed.”

  “I can’t—I’m not supposed to—”

  “Talk about it? You haven’t.”

  This didn’t make her feel better. Not when he watched her expression so closely.

  “I am a man who has operated for many years on instinct,” he told her at last. “I will devise some delay in the signing of these papers, because I feel—as you clearly do—that the timing must be an issue somehow. I do not believe that Lucille will find any hint of Cordufar’s activities in gem concerns; I believe—as it is clear you do—that the offer is meant to invoke greed and bypass caution.

  “But it is a pity. If I better understood what House Cordufar’s intent is, we could make, as they call it, a killing.” He stretched, briefly and returned to his chair. “Lucille will be some time yet, and I believe she has already sent a messenger—at speed—to The Terafin. Don’t look so surprised,” he added, frowning slightly. “Power in the Empire is often defined and supported by money. When matters appear sensitive, we don’t have the time to route all requests through the regular—and somewhat slow—channels; we have means of making urgency clear.”

  He picked up the contracts, the unsigned contracts that had been delivered to Guillarne and, through him, to The Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority. “We have, it appears, less than a day to accept the offer.” He looked up at her. “And as such, House Cordufar could not have approached a better member of House Terafin to advance any cause speed would serve; Guillarne is not old enough to be cautious, and he is both canny and—so far—successful. He has yet to learn a reason for caution.

  “Have a care, Finch. When you return to the manse, speak with your den leader. I suspect that when the offer has expired, we will see some action from House Cordufar.”

  She paled.

  “You must learn to guard your expression,” he told her, his voice soft, his words shorn of the avuncular warmth she had first heard in it. “I meant merchant action.” He rose again. “And I see that you have not taken it as such. Remain here for a moment. I must speak with Lucille.”

  “In the outer office?” she asked, her voice rising as he walked toward the door.

  “In the outer office,” he replied. He glanced once at her, his hand upon the door. “Finch,” he finally asked quietly, “what do you fear?”

  She swallowed. Closed her eyes briefly. “Demons.”

  He stared at her. “Demons,” he finally replied. His eyes did not leave her face. She expected him to laugh or to say something—anything—to dismiss the single word she had offered him.

  “One day,” he told her, as he again reached for the door, “you will have to explain why. But no, not now.” He opened it, and left her.

  She remained in the office for more than an hour, although she didn’t spend all of it confined to the chair. When Jarven failed to return, she rose and began to pace. Jarven’s office wasn’t small, and it wasn’t tightly packed or crammed, the way so many of the other rooms were; it was spacious enough that she could stretch her legs; the carpet muffled the sound of her feet.

  She reached the window and watched the traffic in the streets below. Here, the rich came, and carriages of all sizes and colors stopped at the foot of the stairs, while footmen brought stools or offered hands to the people within. She couldn’t hear much, and while the windows did appear to open, she wasn’t willing to risk touching them. They were glass; they weren’t the open space that stood behind warped shutters.

  Only when she heard shouting from the exterior office did she back away from the windows and return to her chair. She even managed to stay in it for a while, but the shouting, rather than diminishing, seemed to grow. At length, a mixture of curiosity and dread pulled her from her chair, and she approached the doors cautiously. They were damn solid doors.

  Minutes passed before she forced herself to open them an inch or two, taking care to do so as silently as possible—not that she thought anyone would notice.

  But at an inch, the voice was no longer muffled.

  “Jarven, this is outrageous. You’ve had a chance to read and evaluate the contracts—”

  “As I have already said, Guillarne.”

  “You haven’t given me any reason for your refusal, and I tell you now, the House will never see as good an offer as the one Cordufar has put on the table. He doesn’t bluff—he’ll remove it if we delay.”

  “I am aware of his formidable reputation,” Jarven replied mildly.

  “You are not if you block or delay this.”

  Lucille was standing, arms folded, to one side of Jarven. To Finch’s surprise, she hadn’t yet spoken a word. But she glanced at Jarven.

  “If you are going to ruin my chances to establish my own reputation,” Guillarne said, his voice dropping in volume, “you will do me the courtesy of explaining why.”

  “Indeed, if I were to do that, I would.”

  Silence. Finch thought it might last. Guillarne, however, had other ideas.

  “I will take this to the House Council!”

  Lucille’s arm’s tightened, and her lips compressed. Finch waited for the explosion. To her surprise, there was none.

  “If you can convene the Council in the appropriate time, be my guest,” Jarven replied. “However, remember what I’ve told you in the past about possible gain.”

  Guillarne stared at him. “They’ll have your job, for this. You’ll be put out to pasture—”

  Jarven lifted a hand as Lucille opened her mouth. It was Lucille’s mouth that closed, but even from the office, Finch could hear the teeth snap.

  “I may, indeed.”

  But Guillarne did not continue. Finch, on the other hand, would have fled the expression on Lucille’s face.

  Swallowing words, Guillarne studied Jarven’s smooth expression for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I would appreciate,” he said stiffly, “if, when you are able to speak about this, you would explain your reasoning.”

  Jarven nodded. Then he smiled, and to Finch’s surprise, it was a fond smile. “Guillarne, you are young, and you are brash, but of my students, you were always the most promising. You still are,” he added. “And indeed, age addles me.

  “I am not willing to allow you the end of these negotiations at this point. It is my suspicion that they would be far more costly for you than you could possibly imagine, and not even for information about House Cordufar would I be willing to take that risk. Ah,” he added, as the doors to the outer office opened and a man in a nondescript uniform entered the room, “I believe that is our answer.”

  Lucille left him, looki
ng only slightly less thunderous, and intercepted the messenger. He handed her a tube.

  Guillarne, seeing it, glanced at Jarven. “You sent word to The Terafin,” he finally said.

  Jarven nodded.

  “My apologies, Jarven. I—”

  But Jarven shook his head. “Lucille?”

  She walked back to him and handed him the tube; it glowed, like invoked magelight, when it touched his palm. Her anger was now muted. “It’s serious,” she said quietly. “I haven’t seen that tube since—” she shook her head.

  “Guillarne,” Jarven said, “if at all possible, it is highly advisable that you avoid Lord Cordufar and his aides until later in the week. The risk,” he added, “is yours to take.”

  But the sight of the tube had quelled Guillarne’s fury, and what was left made him look much younger. He nodded.

  Jarven turned back to the office, the tube in his hand. Finch, peering through the open door, had just enough time to step out of the way. He winked, and she reddened slightly. “I won’t tell Lucille,” he whispered.

  “She probably saw me anyway.”

  “Sit, Finch. Lucille?”

  Lucille stepped into the room and closed the doors. She gave Finch a look.

  “I’m sorry—it’s just that I heard the shouting, and I—”

  “Half the Merchant Authority probably heard the shouting,” Lucille snapped back. “And they had the brains not to try to crowd in through the doors.”

  “Lucille.” Jarven said quietly.

  “I don’t think you should involve Finch—on her first day—in matters of the House,” Lucille told Jarven stiffly.

  “If I am not mistaken, she is already involved, and in ways that you and I are not,” was the grave reply. Jarven spoke a word, and then he twisted the tube and pulled the top part free. The back of curled parchment lay exposed, and he withdrew this, handing the two halves of the container to Lucille.

  He uncurled the letter, read it briefly, and nodded. “It is as I thought,” he told them both. “Under no circumstance are we to allow these negotiations to take place. We are, however, free to attempt to extend the period the offer covers.”

  “There’s more,” Lucille said.

  Jarven raised a brow. “There is, indeed, more. We are not, at this juncture, to allow private negotiations to take place between any House associated with Cordufar and any member of Terafin. This ban is in effect until explicitly revoked.” He set the letter to one side on the pristine surface of the desk.

  “What’s happening, Jarven?” Lucille asked quietly.

  “I’m not certain. But whatever it is, I fear you will have your answer soon.” He turned to Finch. “You are to wait until an escort arrives from the manse. You are to return to the House with Torvan ATerafin, and if he does not accompany the escort, you are to remain in Lucille’s care.”

  Finch nodded.

  The rest of the day was quiet. Finch sat to one side of Lucille, behind Lucille’s desk. She opened letters, and she stamped the time and date on the bottom; Lucille didn’t expect her to read them all, but she no longer spent the time hovering over her new charge.

  No, Lucille was busy writing letters for Jarven to sign. If Lucille spoke her mind as freely as any woman Finch had met in the inner holdings, she didn’t write the same way, and Finch scuttled after paper that had been thrown or dropped on the floor as Lucille composed.

  While she was on her knees trying to reach under the desk to retrieve one such discarded attempt, the doors opened. In and of itself, this wasn’t surprising; they opened all the time. But the silence that spread across the office made it clear that this particular visitor was unexpected and possibly unwelcome.

  Glancing up, she saw that Lucille had stiffened. She had also set aside her quill and the paper on which she was working. Some instinct made Finch’s knees lock, and she stayed below the desk’s surface, looking at feet. A man’s feet, large and in expensive boots.

  “Lord Cordufar,” Lucille said. And then, after a pause, “I don’t believe you have an appointment.”

  Feet were not terribly expressive. Silence, however, could be. This one went on for a while, and Lucille made no attempt to break it. But, eventually, Lord Cordufar did.

  “I had hoped,” he said, “since the port is closed, Patris Jarven’s schedule would not be as unforgiving. I would like but a moment of his time.”

  “I’m afraid,” Lucille replied, reaching for a book that sat between two marble horses on her desk’s surface, “that won’t be possible at this time of day. If you would like to make an appointment,” she added, “I’m sure he would be delighted to speak with you at another time.”

  The silence stretched. Lord Cordufar’s feet moved, and they moved toward the desk. In the office silence, the clear sound of armored feet could also be heard, but no one drew weapons.

  “You may tell your lord,” he finally said, “that she plays a very dangerous game.”

  “As you wish, Patris,” Lucille replied.

  He turned, then, and left the office, and only when the doors slammed—and they did—did Finch rise. She was shaking.

  Lucille, pale, was not. She turned to Finch and said, “Go to your desk. I think it best, for the remainder of the day, that you work there.”

  Finch nodded. “It’s probably better,” she said, as she began to gather her work, “than crouching on the floor behind your chair every time the door opens.”

  She stayed in that room until Torvan ATerafin showed up at the front doors, and she left while Lucille watched.

  Chapter Nine

  8th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  FINCH SAT UP IN BED with a start. She wasn’t certain what had woken her, but sleep broke instantly, and she was already reaching for the comfort of a dagger’s handle in the dark. Like many of the den, she divested herself of obvious weapons and obvious tools during the day, but night had always been different.

  Holding the knife, she slid her legs off one side of the bed as the knock came at the door. It wasn’t a gentle, nighttime intrusion of sound; it was a sharp, loud banging. She flung the blankets off, made her way to the door and threw it open.

  Ellerson was standing in the frame. “The kitchen, please,” he told her softly.

  If she were still viscerally suspicious of nighttime visits by strangers, she would have failed to find that suspicion had she tried: His expression was grave, but the almost paternal gentleness that she so liked was still present. Seeing him in the darkness, a lamp in one hand, she said nothing. Instead, she fled to the closet to find clothing—any clothing at all—that would give her the freedom to move.

  To run.

  Night touched the Terafin manse. The halls were quiet; the servants, silent. The lamps were lit in the usual places, and the magelights shone at their lowest setting, but the silence was not peaceful.

  It was broken by the steps of House Guards. Even those who were in theory off duty had been summoned and had made their way in haste to their posts. New guards and old, they stood in lines before their captains, waiting and receiving their orders to deploy.

  The newest of the guards stood as tall as some of the oldest; he handled armor well, but he was not yet at home with the hilt of a sword. Not at home with its use. He knew that he was to look straight ahead while the captain addressed the guard, and he did as well as he could.

  But he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the sound of new footsteps, the arrival of new men—men who had, scant hours before, surrendered their shift and their duties and gone home. The young man with whom he’d been paired, who had been in the Guard for only two months, cleared his throat, and Arann snapped back to attention.

  Claris was two inches shorter than Arann and not as broad, but he was better with a sword, and he talked more. He was red-haired, although his as wasn’t as bright and unruly as Jester’s; it was cropped in a regulation cut. Then again, so was Arann’s. Were it not for his helmet, which
he didn’t like because it made his face feel as if it were in a cage, his ears would have been entirely exposed.

  “We’ve word from The Terafin,” the captain said. He’d had to repeat this several times, but the repetition didn’t dull the words, couldn’t make them boring. “We are to expect trouble, on a large scale, tonight. We’ve called the House Guard, and the Chosen are all deployed; The Terafin herself is preparing for war.

  “We do not know what form the attack will take; nor do we know for certain when it will start. If the gods smile, our informant will be proved incorrect, and we will have lost sleep—but no lives.”

  Glancing at the man’s bearded face, his pale skin, Arann thought that the gods would not smile, tonight. He didn’t ask who the informant was. No one did. The Terafin trusted the information enough to call the House Guard; no guard needed to know more.

  “We have visitors at the manse. Some, you are familiar with; some you are not. In the East Wing, there are two lords of note. They hail from the Western Kingdoms, beyond the Free Towns. The Terafin is concerned for their safety, and the heaviest of our patrols will therefore be outside the East Wing.

  “The lords are not Essalieyanese, and they may, if they appear, have their animals with them. These will be dogs of various colors; they are almost all of a size. The dogs are reputed to be obedient and well trained, but they will do as their master orders; they will take no commands from anyone else. Do not attempt to interfere with the dogs, no matter what they do.

  “The Hunter Lords, as they are called, may join us in battle if there is battle. The Terafin bids you to trust their instincts and to reinforce them if they require it. In all things, they are to be treated as if they are ATerafin. Is that clear?”

  “Is it the Hunter Lords who are under attack, or is it Terafin?”

  Arann couldn’t see who spoke. He didn’t recognize the voice. He did, however, recognize the captain’s pinched expression. “In this case,” he replied, “they are one and the same.”