“I find them necessary.”
“The young are bold or foolish, Hectore. You are no longer young. If I may offer advice—”
“Propriety has never stopped you from offering it before, and if I recall, the advice was disastrous.”
“You only pretended to take it.”
“True.”
“And thus proved a point. It was an expensive point,” Jarven added.
“For which you’ve no doubt forgiven me.”
“I seldom hold grudges at my age; they require far too much energy.”
Seldom. Not never. “Your advice, old friend?”
“Do not forgo the pleasure of Andrei’s company in the near future, where pleasure is of course entirely contextual.”
Hectore did not argue. Andrei’s absence had already caused one disagreement for the evening; he did not wish to rehash it for Jarven’s amusement, and it would pain Andrei to know that Jarven actually agreed with him. “You yourself are without House Guard.”
“There is always a risk in deadly games,” Jarven replied, with a smile that was almost beatific. “And as I am expected to succumb to old age and expire momentarily, the risks outweigh the possible benefits.”
“I imagine, old friend, that there are those who are desperate to reach you before you expire peacefully.”
“Yes, well. I feel it important that the young develop ambitions, and I hate to discourage them.” He smiled again. It reminded Hectore that Jarven in his youth had been considered a handsome man.
A handsome, ruthless, largely amoral man. The last, in Hectore’s estimation, was untrue. He was a minorly amoral man. As long as you did not stand in his way, he was amiable and unpredictably helpful. If you did, and you were not extremely cautious, you would not be standing in his way for long. Sentiment did not bind him; affection did not sway him. Yet in his fashion he could be both sentimental and affectionate.
He was old, yes. But old or no, Hectore had never seen the challenge Jarven was willing to accept that he could not, in the end, rise to face. A wise man did not bet against him; Hectore had not always been wise in his youth.
“Keep Andrei with you,” Jarven said again. “If such a man had consented to serve me, I wouldn’t let him out of the range of my shadow.”
“You have Lucille,” Hectore replied, grinning. Lucille was almost everything Jarven was not. She disliked Hectore and the Araven business—if dislike was not too mild a word—but Hectore could find no similar disdain for her. “Andrei is far too wise to cross her.”
“Andrei accepts the fact that you are master of your domain,” Jarven countered, with a similar grin. “Lucille has expectations. It is remarkably difficult not to disappoint them; the finesse required is challenging.” His smile faded, like sunlight on the edge of twilight. “Andrei was correct.”
“I’ll trouble you not to repeat that; he will be insufferable.”
“He is frequently insufferable; it has not notably harmed either you or your many ventures.”
“No. Andrei is not generally given to understatement. I will confess that I did not expect an open attack—during business hours—on the Authority Council.”
“And the offices?”
“I would not have been surprised—at all—to hear that Terafin had been likewise destroyed. I am surprised—if gratified—to know that it was not. Was that your doing?”
Jarven shrugged. “I am not, in spite of all gossip to the contrary, mage-born. I have, as I have mentioned, no family. I have no wife, and no offspring of whom I am currently aware. I have, perhaps, more time to devote to precautions that would only be necessary in the most extraordinary circumstances.
“Finch is the closest thing I have to a daughter. Do not make that face, Hectore; it will spoil my dinner. If you reference this small conversation at all, I ask that you use the word protégée; it is the one with which I have most experience.”
“You generally destroy your protégées,” Hectore said, speaking as mildly as one might about under-watered potted plants.
“That is harsh, Hectore.”
“You’re not disagreeing.”
Jarven’s smile was pleasant, paternal. It set Hectore’s teeth on edge. “I give them the opportunity to destroy themselves. They have learned what Finch has learned, and they have seen what Finch has seen. They merely failed to understand and deploy it. If they are to be associated with me, they will prove themselves worthy of that association; I have given them all of the tools they require, and I will not leave overweening fools as my legacy.”
“You will not play these games with the young ATerafin council member.”
“As you say.”
“Jarven—” Hector fell silent. “Look at me; I’m being baited like a gangly, inexperienced youth.”
Jarven’s grin deepened; he was genuinely amused. “The information that Andrei provided was subtle, but deep. I am not yet finished with it; I have only just begun.”
“Andrei’s chief concern at the moment is the timing. It is possible that the disaster in the Authority offices had nothing to do with the investigation—but the timing is suspect.”
“It is,” was Jarven’s quiet reply. If successful baiting amused him, failure of subtlety did not. “It is also a clear indication that extraordinary caution is required. You have not, I note, come back with another round of the almost insulting missives you call contract negotiations. Not even Varson could catch all of the annoying little details.”
“As it happens, I have just received the latest draft from my scribe; he considers your amendments to be petty, but feels they fall just short of open insult. He is clearly not familiar enough with your work.”
Servants began to circulate through the room, carrying trays with finger foods and wine. Food, in a gathering of this nature, was almost always welcome; Hectore was slightly surprised to see how much of it remained. The wine also surprised him; the guildmaster had clearly opened the wine cellars generally reserved for smaller and more elite patrician gatherings.
“The guildmaster expects difficulty,” Jarven observed.
“Yes. I’ve never considered him a fool.”
“Have you considered him an ally?”
“An odd question, ATerafin. We are all merchants here.”
“Indeed. But have you not noticed that the currency has changed? The game has grown, Hectore. It has become large enough that it is almost impossible to see the entire board.”
“Almost?”
Jarven smiled. “We are endlessly inventive; if we understand the language of power, translation should not be beyond us.” He looked past Hectore’s shoulder. “I believe the guildmaster has arrived.”
• • •
Guerrin ADurrance was younger than Hectore, but not by much, and he went to some small pains to disguise what remained of his youth, preferring the gravitas of wisdom. Or at least the appearance of it; Hectore did not know Guerrin well. He was not generally impressed by the younger man’s pretensions, although he considered some pretense of vital import in the running of the guild. During times of what could tentatively be called peace—as the trade wars were often bloody, long affairs—Guerrin was an acceptable figurehead.
The events at the Merchant Authority did not fall under the rubric of trade war. Had there been deaths by obvious—and mortal—assassins, there would be disquiet and many blind eyes. But magic had been used, and in outrageous and openly illegal ways. The Order and its body politic was already sniffing around the edges of the guild’s governing body; the Kings had been informed, and were no doubt ready to unleash their trained specialists.
It was an unfortunate truth of Hectore’s life that those of whom he was naturally most suspicious—Jarven being the prime example, if one considered only the men present—were also those he assumed most competent. He considered Jarven vain, but his vanity was almost enti
rely superfluous. It added a touch of color to the treacherous twists and turns of Jarven’s superficially harmless social dealings, no more. At heart, Jarven was pragmatic. If he knew what he wanted, it was his.
Hectore was not cut from the same cloth. He considered most of his fortune to be the result of both hard work—a necessity, in any trade—and luck, the blessed smile of Kalliaris. He had, of course, some experience with her frowns, but they were mercifully brief and, to date, they had not been fatal.
He knew when to accept a loss. Jarven did not. A loss was merely a break in the game, while he considered different strategies. But Jarven was older now, and the drive and passion of a younger man’s ambition had all but deserted him.
Or so Hectore would have said, a week ago. Perhaps two. The Jarven who stood unapologetically at his side surveying a crowd of hostile, fearful, and yes, obsequious men, was clear-eyed. No, bright-eyed. Not a detail in the room would escape his notice, and possibly his future manipulation.
As Guerrin ADurrance made his way to the lectern by the highly decorated far wall, Hectore said, “What do you think of young Guerrin?”
To Hectore’s profound and lasting surprise, Jarven said, “I think it is time to take our leave. Now, Hectore.”
• • •
One argued with Jarven at one’s peril, but in general if one chose peril, there were good reasons for it. Jarven was methodical, if unpredictable; he had a mind like an abacus and a heart like a mage’s interior offices. Hectore was a man whose decisions were often made on instinct alone. He could explain that instinct after the fact, prettying it up or making it sound more rational and pragmatic than it actually was, but at base, some of the most significant decisions he had made in his history at the helm of Araven had been made without deliberation.
He did not make a run for the doors; that was beneath them both. But he offered Jarven a genial, controlled nod, rather than argument or question. Nor did he seek to leave by the large public doors that he’d entered by; something in Jarven’s tone made the well-lit, well guarded doors seem impractical.
Jarven raised a white brow as Hectore turned and headed toward a section of sparse wall.
“It is stuffy,” Hectore said, as if in explanation, “and Guerrin understands the tone of a room and its occupants; the doors to the main hall—” the hall in which they were now walking, “are guarded by impressive men in impressive livery and in larger than usual numbers tonight.”
“They are unlikely to stop us,” Jarven said, following adroitly and gracefully through the thinnest part of the crowd.
“Thanks to you, old friend, I no longer feel that with appropriate certainty.”
Jarven grinned. The old bastard was genuinely enjoying himself, and Hectore somewhat resented it. Not enough, however, to become truculent and insist on remaining; he hadn’t been looking forward to Guerrin’s speech, and in other circumstances might appreciate a good excuse to miss it.
“I had not realized,” Jarven said, when Hectore opened the servants’ entrance, “that you had reached such elevated, trusted status that the servants would not look askance at your presence among their number.”
“I am a merchant,” Hectore replied. “I sell whatever is required. It would not be the first time I’ve slipped out of the guild through the back halls.”
“I am shocked,” Jarven said, with obvious amusement.
“You yourself recognize the halls.”
“Of course. But I am only ATerafin now; in my youth I was vastly less exalted.”
“Jarven,” Hectore said, as he paused to hand off a princely sum of money to a loitering older man, “your enjoyment of some things is practically obscene.”
“What are the other options? Finding the pleasant in the unpleasant seems the optimal choice, where possible.”
“A certain amount of gravitas is considered an asset for men of your stature.”
“An asset, surely, to be used against me rather than in my favor.”
“I’ve seldom noticed you to be in possession of such assets.” Hectore handed a small purse, prepared for just such emergencies, to a second, older woman. She caught his wrist before she allowed him to pass.
“Marjorie,” he began.
She shook her head. He met her gaze and froze.
“Patris,” she whispered, “what is happening tonight?”
“The guildmaster is addressing all of the membership who’ve chosen to be present. It’s more serious because of the events in the Merchant Authority.”
She glanced at Jarven, but asked him no questions.
“Marjorie, what’s happened? What’s happened in the back halls?”
She bit her lip and glanced down the hall, in the direction of the first man Hectore had so casually bribed. Her answering smile was ghastly, it was so bright and forced. But her hand, still attached to his wrist, trembled. “Take Helen,” she said.
“Helen?” He frowned for a long moment. “Helen, the new girl?”
“Take her, Patris. I can’t leave—I’ll lose my job, and I need it.”
“What is she to you?”
She shook her head. “She’s my niece. My sister’s daughter.”
“Your sister passed away—”
“Two years ago. Deathbed promise that I’d care for her and I’d see her placed.”
“She’ll lose her job.”
“I can cover for her. I can take the blame for sending her off on an errand. I can blame you, and they’ll accept it; you’re important enough, they’ll turn a blind eye.” Her voice was low; her hand shook.
At any other time Hectore might have been insulted, although he accepted the truth in her words. Had he demanded the presence of a new servant who was low enough in the back halls hierarchy, no one would raise voice in that servant’s defense.
But the servant herself might be out of a job, if her masters were feeling uncharitable. “Where is she now?”
“Hectore,” Jarven said, “I sincerely doubt we have the time for this.”
He didn’t argue; he didn’t pause to acknowledge. Instead, he removed a ring and placed it carefully in the servant’s hand. “I do not know what you fear; I am uneasy, but cannot give a reason for it. I trust my instincts. I cannot wait, but send her—with my ring—to the Araven manse.”
“With what instructions?”
“Tell her merely to return it. They will understand when she arrives that she is to be treated well. You might come with her yourself.”
Marjorie shook her head. “If I lose this job, I won’t find another that’ll keep food on the table. I might as well be dead.”
He did not tell her not to speak of death; he did not offer the pretense of a humorous excuse. She did not require it. Nor did he ask her not to speak of his presence here. Given her own request, she would not. But he felt, as he left her, that he stepped into the shadows of a future that would see very little light. He thought of the Henden of 410, and glanced at Jarven.
Jarven’s face was a mask. The forced joviality that usually adorned it, at least superficially, was gone. “There may be minor difficulties,” he said.
“Before or after we leave?”
“When we leave. I would ask, in this instance, that you trust me. Let me lead.”
“And run behind to attract the wolves?”
Jarven’s laugh was a brief bark. “It is good to know we understand each other.”
“I find it less delightful than you clearly find it,” Hectore replied. “I am already missing Andrei.”
“Oh?”
“He tends to put a damper on your excesses.”
“True. If Lucille were here,” Jarven added, “we would not now be leaving. She is characterized first and foremost by her sense of exaggerated responsibility.” As he spoke, he drew a letter opener from the tailored folds of his expensive jacket. Or at lea
st Hectore assumed, at first glance, that that was its function; it was far too ornate, far too pretty, to be a weapon. He raised a brow.
Jarven did not appear to notice, which meant nothing. Hectore slid his hand into his own pocket; his fingers grazed one of the three stones he carried there. It was a perfectly legal use of magic, a stone meant to insure the privacy of a conversation should privacy be the desired state. Among merchants, this was not guaranteed. The overheard word often carried a peculiar weight, and many men and women took some pains to place those words with care and ostentation.
He activated the stone now. “What trouble do you expect?”
“Given the servants’ reaction? There is now very little trouble I don’t expect. I don’t mind difficulty; most of my last two decades have been an unsuccessful attempt to stave off boredom.” His smile was sharp as a knife’s edge, and just as warm. He stepped aside and Hectore passed him.
“You don’t often seek to escape through the back halls.”
“Not often, no. If someone is foolish enough to attempt to corner me at any one of our many guild meetings, I find it amusing.”
“In direct proportion to their frustration?”
“In almost exactly that, yes. Lucille feels it lacks dignity; she seldom accompanies me for that reason.”
“Which kills two birds with one stone.”
“You know, Hectore, were you a younger man, I would have taken you as a protégé in a heartbeat.”
“I will try not to find that insulting.”
Jarven chuckled. “This door?”
“The far door, nearer the kitchen. It is oft-traveled, but seldom by fleeing merchants.”
“And the trade entrance?”
“The trade entrance, as you call it, is frequently used by the more enterprising young merchants as a method of entrance.”
“Indeed,” Jarven said, grinning fondly. “I remember making strategic use of it myself in the early, hungry years.”
“Spare me,” Hectore said. “And follow.”
• • •
The kitchen was strictly off limits to the membership of the guild for a variety of very good reasons. Hectore both approved of and ignored those reasons, as it suited him; he trusted himself, after all. He didn’t entirely trust Jarven, but no one sane did, and at this particular juncture, it didn’t matter.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 12