The mage looked back over his shoulder. “That? Oh, yes. Do bring it along.”
• • •
Jewel was nervous. It was the cool season in Averalaan, but she was certain she’d never sweated more in her life. Four weeks and a day she’d been searching through the warrens trying to find any hint—any sign at all—of the labyrinth by which she and her den had kept themselves fed and clothed. She knew those tunnels like the back of her hand, and they were gone. Gone. Dirt and rock, uninterrupted by any trace of a tunnel, was all that remained, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said that she’d imagined it all. But damnit, she did know. Somehow, in some way that not even the mage could detect, the demon had concealed them.
Which probably meant that there had to be more than one, because the creature that had become Rath was gone.
It was Rath’s memories they were using; she was certain of it. And he’d said she’d explored areas that he hadn’t—but what if that didn’t end up being true? He was a canny old man, was Rath, and he always kept something up his sleeve in case of emergency. She cursed him with happy abandon in the relative safety of the den’s rooms.
Ellerson appeared from around a corner. “You called?” he said blandly.
“You know damned well I didn’t call,” was her curt response. “So you can stop that stuffy, polite act.”
“As you wish,” he replied, in exactly the same tone of voice. “But may I point something out to the young lady?”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I could stop you if I wanted to.”
“It is unkind—and inaccurate in some cases—to assume that the mannerisms and gestures of another person are assumed, rather than genuine. While you will never develop the same style that I have developed, you were also never exposed to the same influences. I do not assume that your behavior is an act.”
She snorted. “If I was going to act, I’d probably choose something different to act like.”
“Agreed.”
“Ellerson, don’t you have something to do?”
“I am your domicis.”
The reply hadn’t changed at all over the course of the last two weeks; nor had the tone. “I forgot,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
“As you say.”
“Did you come here for a reason?”
“Indeed. Suitable attire has arrived for you and your companions. I thought you might want to have your old clothing removed, as you will be representing The Terafin, and will therefore be expected to dress appropriately.”
She knew better than to say no; she didn’t even try. Instead she nodded and went back to her pacing. The room that she slept in was larger than the flat her entire den had occupied only weeks ago. The food was a bit unusual, but there was a lot of it, it came regularly, and it was good. The moneybox was still empty, but it didn’t matter—while she served The Terafin, her den-kin were safe and secure.
But it’s not going to last long, she thought, grinding her heels into the smooth, waxed floors, if we can’t find the damned labyrinth.
Carver came sauntering into the room. Jewel looked at what he was wearing and sighed. Ellerson was wrong; if they were going to find those tunnels without being caught, they had to do it looking as if they belonged to the holdings they searched through.
“Carver, go tell Ellerson I’ve changed my mind about the clothing.”
“Right, sir,” he replied. “But I’ll trade.”
“Trade what?”
“The Terafin’s looking for you. Torvan’s outside.”
“Why?” She heard the nerves make her voice shake and forced them out of it. “We don’t have another meeting scheduled for two days.”
“Teller says he saw the mage with a group of people. Three men, a really scrubby woman and a bunch of dogs.”
“They’ve called someone else in?”
He shrugged, knowing the news was bad. “Looks like.”
She said something extremely rude and left him by the door as she made her way—at a run—to Torvan’s side.
• • •
The halls, with their almost cavernous ceilings and their width, would always surprise her; she was certain of it. Footsteps echoed strangely and words, even those spoken in near-silence, were caught by unforgiving acoustics. She fiddled with the sash that she wore; it was a shade of blue that Jewel couldn’t identify because the dyes that were used in its making were not affordable to those who lived in her holding. Her hair was drawn back in a style that Ellerson had suggested—and while it was both simple to look at and practical, it was also a monstrosity of little hairpins and clips that she was constantly forgetting were there when she tried to run her fingers through it in her usual gesture of impatience or frustration. She hated it. The more she tried to fit in, the more ill at ease and out of place she felt.
But she’d worry about that later.
She had become accustomed to speaking with The Terafin in either her office or her quarters, and she felt slightly uneasy as she looked at the intricate doors five feet from the arches of the chambers that were used to address visiting dignitaries and people whose import to the House had to be acknowledged. “Isn’t this where—”
“Yes. But the repairs have been done, and well; except for scoring in the stone, you would not know that a battle of any sort took place here.”
Torvan answered so smoothly that she had to wonder how often such cleanups had taken place. It didn’t ease her.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, as he took up his place beside the doors.
“I wasn’t summoned,” was the wry reply. “There are other guests,” he added.
“Which means I’ve got to be on good behavior, right?”
“The choice is always yours.”
She snorted and caught the brass handles of the closed door. “Not much of a choice,” she said to his turned back. “Starve, or jump through hoops.”
“Welcome,” he replied, “to the adult world.” But his voice was actually very gentle.
She didn’t reply because the open doors would carry her words to the woman she least wanted to hear them.
“Jewel. Good. Please join us.” The Terafin was seated behind a large, elegant desk. It was not a match for the one that had been damaged when the wall exploded; Jewel knew it instinctively, although she couldn’t say why. Still, the new carpets were a lovely deep blue with rose and gold embroidery and a pattern—an intricate circular dance of fire flowers in the first rain—that leaped to life from its center. There were sitting chairs here, and the fireplace wall had been cleaned and tended. If she looked, she could see where the demon’s spell had done its damage. She did—but her gaze did not linger.
“This is Lord Elseth of the Kingdom of Breodanir. This is his companion, Stephen. The young woman with them is called Espere, but she is, unfortunately, mute—and they have traveled this distance to find a cure for her condition.”
Jewel followed The Terafin’s introduction and bit her lip to stop herself from speaking. Mute, in Jewel’s opinion, was the least of the stranger’s problems.
“Gentlemen, this is Jewel Markess. She is one of three people I’ve personally appointed to investigate the unusual occurrences in the inner holdings.” There was a knock at the door—one that reminded Jewel that she, too, had been expected to knock and allow her presence to be announced. She blushed.
“Enter.”
The door opened and a man whom Jewel had never seen before walked into the room. He was Torvan’s age, but not like him in appearance; his hair was black with a sprinkling of silver, and his eyes were dark enough that they also seemed black. His face was long, his brow high, and his cheekbones pronounced. He smiled, and Jewel thought he had the most perfect teeth she had ever seen. “I’m sorry I’m late, Terafin.”
It seemed to Jewel that The Terafin’s smile was drawn out agains
t her will. “I’d prefer that you were less often sorry and more often on time,” she said, but she couldn’t make the words as curt as they deserved to be. “Very well. You know Meralonne, more or less. The two gentlemen are visitors from beyond the Empire. This is Lord Elseth of Breodanir, and this, his companion, is Stephen. The young woman to your right is Jewel Markess; it is she that you will be advising.
“Devon ATerafin,” she said to those that she had just introduced, “has been a member of my house for almost twenty years. He is absolutely trustworthy.” Gilliam turned to Stephen, and Stephen shrugged. “Although his duties are to the trade commission, he has agreed to aid us in this difficult time.”
And how exactly could someone from some trading authority help her? Jewel bristled slightly, but said nothing. As if she’d spoken, Devon turned slightly and smiled; she wasn’t certain she liked the expression. Seemed a bit on the smug side. And his face was too pretty.
The fair-haired slender man named Stephen performed a very odd bow; after a minute’s hesitation, so did Lord Elseth. Jewel was good at observing people; she knew that Stephen was relieved and that Gilliam was annoyed, and from this surmised that Stephen, of the two, was the one who worried about manners. What she didn’t see was the signal between them that had forced Gilliam to his feet. Strange.
• • •
Did she know? It was a question that Devon often wondered when in her presence. He knew, of course, that she knew of many of his less well-advertised skills. Knew, too, that she considered him discreet enough to call upon them from time to time. But he did not know if she understood his position within the court of the Kings, and the rank he held there.
Very few did.
Devon ATerafin was one of five men who were considered trustworthy enough to serve one of The Ten while at the same time serving the Crowns; it had never, until three days ago, been a burden to him—but he was no fool, to wonder why so few House members were allowed to enter the compact that governed the Astari. He had studied his histories well, and he understood the lure of power for those who already possessed it.
His smile, smooth and convivial, made him a favorite of the younger Queen; he used it now to mask his concern and his worry. He was not certain it was enough of a mask to protect him from The Terafin, however. He took his seat, but even before he had pulled it into the circle, with a smile to either side, he had already taken stock of the people in the room.
The dogs seemed to sense what lay behind his smile—and indeed the dogs were the biggest surprise in the chamber. From what he knew of dogs—and he knew a surprising amount, for two of the Breodani diplomats often frequented the court of Queen Marieyan—they were of the best of the hunting stock.
“Isn’t it unusual for Hunter Lords to travel?” he said, directing the question to the huntbrother and not the Hunter.
“It is very unusual,” Stephen replied softly. “And we must not tarry; by the first of Veral, we must be in Breodanir, in the King’s City.”
“Or?”
“There is no or,” he said gravely. “We are Hunters, and we abide by the Hunter’s Oath. If we cannot achieve our goal—or yours, Terafin—by that date, we must set aside the goal until the passing of the Sacred Hunt.”
Devon nodded as if satisfied, and in part, he was. He had never seen a Hunter Lord, but these two satisfied both his secondhand knowledge and his instinct. Nothing changed at all in his posture or his expression, but he relaxed slightly.
Until his gaze returned to Meralonne APhaniel.
Meralonne was an older mage with a reputation—what senior mage, he reflected dourly, did not have one?—and an overwhelming sense of his own importance. Unfortunately, from what the Astari could tell, his arrogance matched his ability very closely. That was all that the Astari had really been able to discover about the mage, and for that reason, he was still scrutinized.
He could not, of course, give any of the information that the Astari had gleaned to The Terafin. She had never pushed him to render any account of his day-to-day life to her; it was not her way. The people whose service she asked for she granted a large measure of trust; to this day, that trust had not proved ill-founded.
Do you know? He could not ask, and she never answered—not by word. But there was always suspicion. Especially now, confronted by two foreign lords and one of the Magi.
Why, Terafin, did you summon me if it solely involves the House? He could not, of course, refuse—not and remain a member of Terafin. But to see these foreign lords, that mage, and a young girl who had the aura of one not comfortable with the rules of the patriciate about her made him uneasy indeed.
“Devon, I must ask you one question. Do you know who holds the seventeenth, the thirty-second, and the thirty-fifth?”
He turned at the sound of The Terafin’s voice and raised a brow. “Pardon?” Nothing about his surprise was feigned. This, this is why The Terafin ruled; she did in all things the unexpected. He held up a hand as she opened her mouth. “My apologies, Terafin. I heard the question.”
“And?”
“I must confess that I leave that for the record keepers and the treasury. It’s easy enough to find the three names if you require them.”
“It’s not necessary,” she replied, in a tone that made it clear that it wasn’t. “Meralonne?”
“They are not three names; they are one. Those holdings, as well as the seventh and the fifty-ninth, are in the care of Patris Cordufar.”
“Two of the richest and three of the poorest,” Devon said; the words had the quality of musing done aloud.
“The two richest and the three poorest,” The Terafin replied.
“That is . . . unusual.” More than just understatement; Families held a holding and its responsibilities; Houses might hold two or three. Devon would have sworn that no Lord in Averalaan could lay claim to three now—five was unthinkable. “Why is this of significance to this problem?”
“Because,” The Terafin said, “we believe that the magisterial courts have been corrupted within those holdings.”
It was all Devon could do to remain seated. “Oh?” he said evenly as he leveled his gaze at the woman who held his name. “By whom?”
“Either by Patris Cordufar, who leads one of the richest of the noble families in the Empire, or by those who have managed to take advantage of him. Devon, you’ve met Cordufar.” It wasn’t a question; she rarely asked them.
Damn her. Yes, he’d met Cordufar; the Cordufar fortunes had risen rapidly enough in the previous generation that they were worth watching—but Astari records indicated only that the previous Patris Cordufar was a merchanting genius with no real ambitions but a mind so sharp it could cut a careless man. In financial dealings, it seemed he had met many of them. The current Patris Cordufar was a tall and handsome man with just as little a sense of humor as his father before him and just as deadly an intellect. He could not imagine anyone who could take advantage of that Lord to such an extent.
“I realize that you would never make such a statement without proof,” he said, “but I must nevertheless ask you why you’ve reached that conclusion.”
“Of course,” she said. “These,” and she lifted a document from the edge of the desk closest to her, “are the names of people who have been reported as missing throughout the holdings in the last decade. These,” she continued, lifting another document, “are a list of people who have gone missing within the three poorer holdings that Cordufar runs during that time.”
He took them from her and browsed over the relevant numbers. Stopped. The second list did not in any way coincide with the first. Although there were officially reported disappearances of people in the seventeenth, thirty-second, and thirty-fifth, none of the names were on the second list. “If these were not reported, how do you know they’ve gone missing?”
“We have reason to believe that they were reported, at least initially. Y
ou’ll want, of course, to read this as well.”
He took the third report with a growing unease and a growing curiosity. It was a document, prepared by a clerk of the Order of Knowledge, which charted the missing person count reported and suspected, of the three holdings, and compared them with the rise in population in those centers, and with the economic conditions at the time of the reports.
The reported count had risen slightly over the decade. But the suspected count was spiked so sharply it nearly went off the edge of the document.
He was Astari. “You suspect that whoever has been suppressing these reports is also involved with the disappearances.”
“Why?” Gilliam asked. His huntbrother’s face remained serene, but for some reason, the Hunter Lord himself glared at him and then fell silent.
“Because,” Meralonne replied, “it’s perfectly clear that whoever has been suppressing this information knows which disappearances he, she, or they are responsible for, and which are random acts of violence.”
Devon’s hands were still as he set the papers aside, but years of training gave him that self-control. “Terafin,” he said gravely, “I do not believe that this is House business alone. To imply that a Lord of the patriciate has somehow managed to subvert the magisterial courts is a grave accusation, and possibly worse. A matter of this nature should be reported at once to the appropriate—”
“Be seated,” she said. “Devon.”
He sat.
“There is more, and I trust that you will understand why I say what I say when you have heard it.”
“Terafin, please. I—”
“You will sit down!” He had never heard her raise her voice; he sat because his knees were momentarily too shaky to support him. “And you will listen.” She stood now and left the protection of her desk. “Have you heard stories of the demon-kin?”
He nodded.
“Good. Because we believe that the people responsible for the destruction of the unreported missing persons are either demons or those in league with them.” She paused. “Meralonne can attest to the fact that many of the kin feel a need to . . . feed. If a mage—or more likely a House—has a collection of these creatures, it is quite likely that they will require some physical sacrifice.”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 66