House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “About Rath?”

  “Ararath, yes.”

  The next pause was Jewel’s. But she nodded. “I don’t know if it will make you happy,” she told the older woman. “But he saved my life. He saved all of our lives.”

  The Terafin nodded.

  “He wasn’t exactly happy about it at the time, though.”

  And smiled. “I do not require you to make him a saint,” she told Jewel. “I shouldn’t require you to speak of him at all, not now, when things are so grim. But we did not speak at all after I left Handernesse. I would have welcomed him,” she added. “But he was always proud.”

  And you’re not?

  As if she could hear the question Jewel was wise enough not to ask, she said, “I, too, have some of the Handernesse pride; it has been both strength and liability. Over the years, I have attempted to discern which function it serves and to unentangle myself when it is the latter.

  “You knew him. I did not. What he was willing to share with you—and if he did not change much, that would be little—I would have you share with me, if you are able.”

  This, Jewel could do. She began with the first day she’d seen him, because it was easiest, and because, in retrospect, it was funniest. She didn’t tell it the way Jester would have, but she didn’t need to—The Terafin’s brow rose and her lips turned up at all the right places. She wasn’t judgmental, but Jewel had, in the space of this angry and confusing night, lost her fear of that.

  “You tried to rob him.”

  “No. I did rob him.” She almost added, I’m not proud of it, but at the moment, she was.

  “And he took you in.”

  “Not exactly.” She apologized for the lack of clarity of the next memory, then spoke of her illness, of his care of her, and of her words to him the first night he left her in his apartment. She spoke openly of her peculiar and unpredictable gift, because she knew that Rath would forgive her, and even encourage her. If he hadn’t overcome his pride and his bitter hurt at his sister’s desertion, he had still sent the den—all of them—to House Terafin. And that sister had taken them in.

  The Terafin asked questions as Jewel’s story unfolded. She asked for clarification when Jewel got ahead of herself, which she did often. She asked about the maps, the burning brothel, and the demons. But she also offered small stories of her own in the spaces between Jewel’s narrative, helping Jewel to understand some of the Rath she’d known better.

  Morretz came with food and more wine; he brought sweet water and bread and cheese after the meal’s end. He cleared the dishes himself, but he did not speak a single word that might interrupt them.

  When Jewel spoke of his death—of her certainty that he would die—she spoke slowly and hesitantly for the first time.

  But The Terafin didn’t hold her responsible for his choice, and if her eyes teared, briefly, she seemed pleased in the end—proud—of that choice. She rose for a moment after Jewel had finished. Turning, she walked to the window that was as tall as she, and she looked out into the silent streets of Averalaan Aramarelas. “You don’t understand,” she said quietly, speaking to Jewel’s transparent reflection in the panes of glass before her.

  Jewel nodded. She felt no condescension in the offered words.

  “He chose his death. He chose his death because in the end, it would give us the only warning he could offer that would be believed.” She leaned her forehead against the window for another moment and then lifted it, straightening her shoulders. “I tarried.” She turned.

  “But if his death is not to be wasted, if his choice is to be honored at all, it is now. I will not—I cannot—speak of him openly. But we will know.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “For me?” The Terafin was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. “I only wish my grandfather still lived. I would tell him. It would bring him a measure of peace.” She returned to the table and took her chair without the help of her domicis. “We are bound, in the end, by both the families we were born to and the families we build. It is true of me; it is true, as well, of you.

  “But we are also human. The youngest and the oldest, the most foolish and the most wise. We require, on occasion, people with whom we can share the experiences that matter; it will not always be the same people, because experiences vary. But for now, I have you; you have me. Ararath sent you to me, and in the end, we are what is left of him.” She lifted her glass and held it up above the flickering candles that lay in the center of the table. “I understand that your work in the Cordufar manse was not pleasant.”

  “You’re going to send me back.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Unless you ask me not to, yes. I will send you with Devon. There is still work there that may prove important to us, and you might have some insight that could be of value. The shield that prevents our entry into the maze must have a weakness.”

  “I’m not a mage—”

  “No. You are, if I understand my talents, seer-born. But what—and how—you see, I cannot predict. Will you go?”

  How much worse could it get? Jewel nodded.

  “Then return to your domicis and your den.” She set the glass down without touching it. “Finch has impressed Lucille ATerafin, by all reports. You have not met Lucille; when you do, you will understand how difficult a task that is. Teller has likewise earned the approval of Gabriel. That is less difficult, for Gabriel is both patient and considerate. He has also, however, earned the approval of Gabriel’s secretary, Barston. A man more particular in his choice of aides has yet to be found.” The subtle grimace that accompanied these words made clear that she spoke from experience, but it faded.

  “They will continue to do their work during this crisis. As will Arann.” The Terafin hesitated for just a moment. “I do not know if you wish the others to be similarly employed, and I have some suspicion that at least one of them would find employment difficult.”

  Carver, of course.

  “But you will need them. What they learn from the work they do, and what they teach others by doing it, will be essential to you in the future.”

  16th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan

  When Gabriel ATerafin returned to the office for the fourth time that afternoon, he met Barston’s somewhat accusatory glare with a cringe. The accusation, of course, would never be couched in anything as uncouth as words; the entirety of the office staff, such as it was, understood well why Gabriel was not to be found within his inner chambers. The right-kin paused at the desk; it was less than an hour until early dinner in the Terafin hall, and there was no question whatsoever that either Gabriel or Barston would be in attendance.

  Barston drew away from the desk as Gabriel approached it, forcing Gabriel to shift direction so as not to be offering a gesture of solidarity to what was, at that point, an empty chair. Barston glanced once over his shoulder, and Gabriel saw clearly the object of his concern: it was his new assistant, Teller. The boy with no known family name or connections.

  Gabriel kept the cringe that was building firmly to himself. “Barston,” he said, clearing his throat. Barston gestured briefly—and frantically, for Barston, although it wouldn’t past muster as frantic anywhere else in the manse—and Gabriel lowered his voice. “This is perhaps not the ideal time to train an assistant,” he began. “And if his work in this case is poor, it is not indicative—” Barston’s glacial expression froze the flow of Gabriel’s words.

  “He has been here for a full week,” Barston said, in clipped, clear common. “I assure you, if I felt the quality of his judgment was not sound, I would have given him a temporary leave during this crisis.”

  Gabriel relaxed. “What, then, is the problem?”

  “We have been forced to work long hours in the past two days,” Barston replied. After a pause for the expected comprehension, and a more significant pause for irritation when it didn’t immediately follow, he said, “Letters and messages are arriving with alarming frequency at all hours of the d
ay and well into the night.”

  “And?”

  Barston frowned. “The boy works. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask for a break of any sort.”

  “This is cause for concern? I believe the last three attempts at an assistant were—”

  “Irrelevant to this discussion.”

  Clearly, Barston had been working too hard. “I find his odd insights valuable,” he finally said. “And I am therefore reluctant to deprive myself of his assistance at this time. But he is not Terafin; he does not have access to the Terafin dining halls.”

  “He has the West Wing, and they are reputed to have—”

  “Itinerant cooks.”

  “—Very fine cooks, if not dedicated night and day to that small kitchen. I cannot very well designate the boy Terafin for the simple expedient of feeding him.”

  Barston looking mildly shocked at even the suggestion. “I was suggesting nothing of the sort,” he said, in case the shock was not clear enough. “But I feel, in this case, some of the rules pertaining to food in the office might be . . . relaxed. For the duration of the crisis.”

  “That’s all?”

  Barston nodded grimly.

  “Very well. If you require it, you have my permission. Shall I write it all out?”

  “No.”

  “Good. If you don’t mind, I’m about to slink into my office in the vague hope that I will actually be able to attend to any of the correspondence that is only a normal emergency.”

  “You mistake me, right-kin,” Barston replied. “I will write the permission; you merely have to sign it.”

  Gabriel sighed. “Then put it on top of whatever horror you’re about to dump on my desk, or I’ll never find it again.”

  Teller, absent until the tail end of this conversation, now appeared looking hesitant but not fearful. “Right-kin?” he asked, tentatively.

  Gabriel smiled; it was weary but genuine. “Yes?”

  “There’s a message here for you.”

  “There are probably two hundred.”

  “This was delivered in person.”

  Gabriel turned toward the door and saw the familiar House livery waiting just to one side of it.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Teller said softly.

  “Worse, I think, than you know.” Gabriel started toward the messenger and then stopped and turned back. “Or perhaps not. What has your den leader had to say about her investigations?”

  “Nothing,” Teller replied. “She’s not supposed to speak about them without The Terafin’s permission.”

  It was not, Gabriel thought, the entire truth, but he was satisfied with the response. “Barston is concerned about your lack of food in the office,” he said quietly, eyeing the waiting guard. “And while I considered the possibility of relaxing office rules for the duration of this crisis, I believe I will ask, instead, that a standing invitation to meals in the Hall be issued; you will lunch with him.”

  He could tell, to his quiet amusement, that perhaps Teller did not consider it the mercy that Barston would, but then again, the boy was bright. “Before I am once again diverted from the office for the next hour—or several—is there any message of note or import that I should deal with?”

  Teller hesitated. Gabriel marked the hesitation instantly for what it was, and he lifted a hand, signaling to the guard that he was both aware of his presence and of what the presence demanded and that it would have to wait a moment.

  “I would have said it was personal,” he began quietly. Gabriel lifted a hand.

  “You have managed, against all odds, to survive a week of Barston’s scrutiny, and I do not have the time for either meekness or nerves.”

  Teller’s hesitation did not evaporate, but Gabriel’s words had the desired effect: The boy produced a single letter. “It’s from Devon ATerafin,” he said quietly.

  Gabriel did not blink or cringe—not outwardly. But he took the letter from Teller’s hand and tucked it into his sash. “Thank you, Teller. And yes, as you guess, it is not Devon’s way to send personal notes; he is a busy man. I will carry this with me; I am called by The Terafin, and she is even busier than I. With luck, you will be gone before I return.”

  Teller nodded, but Barston snorted quietly.

  Finch, on the other hand, found the Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority very quiet. The quiet itself was not a problem, although Lucille often felt the need to fill it with words. Word of the fate of Lord Cordufar’s estate had traveled throughout the Authority, and it had left a lot of hushed huddles of gossip in its wake.

  Very little in the way of business-as-usual was being conducted. Not none, of course; Lucille said that the wheels of commerce would continue to spin if the Kings themselves suddenly died. Mail arrived, but messengers were sparse; the entire merchant population of the city seemed to be riveted by the information that gossip so distorted.

  “How bad is this going to be?” Finch asked, as Lucille grimaced at the mail.

  “For us?”

  Finch nodded.

  In response, Lucille handed Finch a stack of papers. “While I realize you’ve started during the quiet season—while the port is mainly closed—we still have work that needs doing. Manifests,” she explained. “It’s easy to assume that anything that shakes the Authority causes the world to grind to a halt—but most of the real work is done by men and women who don’t live in the building and spend as little time in it as possible. They still have goods and cargo; the caravans, except the Northern ones, are still running. So we have work to do.” Lucille smiled brightly. It looked hideous because it was so wrong for her face. One glance at Finch’s expression made clear just how successful it had been, and Lucille snorted and discarded it. “It’s not as bad as it could be—not for Terafin. One or two of our members were pursuing Cordufar’s concerns with some interest, but the Darias connection made any negotiations both glacial and unpromising.

  “It’s why,” she added, “the offer to Guillarne would have had to be so attractive. And,” she added, with just a hint of regret, “it was. I wonder who Lord Cordufar angered so greatly; the House is gutted. We’ll see Royal Intervention there, for sure.”

  “Royal Intervention?”

  “You cannot use that much obvious magic—and it was clearly destruction caused by magic—in Averalaan unless you happen to be the Kings. And they can’t. Mages who could are probably in short supply, at least according to Jarven. The mages didn’t go to Cordufar with the Kings; the Kings would have made a public declaration very shortly after the event had the attack been done at their command.

  “But as it clearly wasn’t, they have no choice. There’ll be writs. There’ll be mage hunts. There are, if rumor is to be believed, members of the Order of Knowledge crawling all over the grounds.”

  Finch hesitated, and Lucille marked it. “More stuff you can’t talk about?”

  Finch nodded, but the hesitation remained. At last she said, “I think the Kings already know who was responsible.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Cordufar.”

  Silence. It wouldn’t last. “Finch,” Lucille said quietly, “I really do think this is firmly in the category of stuff you can’t talk about.”

  Finch gazed out past the desk, at the set of closed doors that divided Lucille’s territory from the rest of the Merchant Authority. “I know,” she said miserably. “But I think everyone will know it soon.” She felt an arm around her shoulders and startled slightly, but she didn’t pull away. “Jay’s there.”

  “Where, Finch?”

  “At the Cordufar manse. With the mages. I’ve only ever seen her this afraid a handful of times.”

  “And those times?”

  “We lost people.”

  Lucille didn’t ask. Instead, she muttered something about sending children into the midst of dangerous lunatics—by which, Finch inferred she meant the mage-born. But after a few minutes, she shoved manifests under Finch’s nose and told her to get to work; she went off to talk t
o Jarven.

  Five minutes later, Lucille exited the office. “Jarven,” she said, her voice heavy with irritation, “would like tea.” As Finch rose, she added, “And it would not break my heart or stain your record if you told him what he could do with that tea.”

  Jarven was seated behind his desk; the windows, their curtains drawn, shed enough light that it was hard to see more than his outline. But his nod was clear. Finch, juggling the tray, which was heavy enough that it seemed unfair that the cups always seemed to be perched so precariously no matter where she set them, stepped into the office. Lucille had been kind enough to open and hold the door for her, and Finch had no doubt whatsoever that she was even now making a face at Jarven over her head.

  She did not, however, look back to confirm her suspicion; instead she made straight for the nearly spotless surface of the desk and set the tray down. Lucille’s desk never looked anywhere close to as spotless, and it wasn’t because a tidy tray held most of Jarven’s important mail—which remained as Finch had placed it earlier in the day.

  She poured a cup of tea for Jarven and carried it behind the desk, placing it carefully in front of him. He glanced down at it but did not move his hands, and she shrank inwardly. She hoped that the cringe didn’t actually reach her expression; weeks working with Lucille had made clear how important it was to mask or hide it.

  “Yes,” he told her, as she made her way back to the chair she habitually took when he asked for her, “this is not, as you suspect, about the tea. Was Lucille annoyed?”

  “You saw her,” Finch replied carefully. When this failed to engender a response, she added, “Not more than she usually is.”

  He nodded. As Finch’s eyes acclimatized themselves to the brighter environs of his office, she caught the telltale lift of lips that meant a wry smile. “I am duly impressed,” he told her softly, “with your ability to worm your way into Lucille’s heart. There are rumors circulating within the manse that she doesn’t actually have one.”

  Finch had learned to hide timidity or fear; shock, however, was still unschooled. Her jaw did not remain hanging open for long.