It was not, of course, glass; that would have been too easy.
The servants were accustomed to the hierarchy of the front halls; they allowed Hectore, Jarven, and Andrei to pass them, although the hall grew crowded as they examined the barrier. And it was a barrier.
“What do you think their aim is?” Hectore asked, as Andrei stepped in front of Jarven and placed his hands against what seemed to be solid, thin air.
“Your guess is, no doubt, almost as good as my own,” Jarven replied, watching Hectore’s servant. “It is, however, surprising given the attack in the Common during the victory parade.” To Hectore’s mild disgust, Jarven smiled. His eyes were bright, focused; he had been handed a problem that was not entirely outside of his area of expertise.
“Let us assume I accept the superiority of your knowledge, as we are unlikely to aid Andrei in any practical way.”
“Not, in my experience, a safe assumption—for me.” Jarven’s smile deepened, sharpened. “But I will accept it for the moment; it has been an exceptional—and enlightening—evening, and I am feeling somewhat generous. Andrei?”
“Believe,” the servant replied—in an entirely uncharacteristic way, given the differences in their stations, “that I am attempting to ascertain any structural weaknesses as quickly as possible. If Hectore is entertained by your opinions, I assure you I am not.”
Jarven laughed. It was a bold, strong sound, so at odds with the frailty he often hid behind that it was bracing. Hectore felt an answering smile tug at his lips; it was dampened only by the palpable fear of the servants now trapped in these halls behind them.
“The attack at the Merchant Authority was a skirmish; a feint. In my opinion it was meant to test the limits of the defenses the Authority has allowed to be put into place.”
“Terafin?”
“You will find, when you next visit the office, that it is materially unharmed.”
“But not intentionally.”
Jarven raised a brow, but did not otherwise reply. “It also served as a call to arms. Merchants are not generally considered timid; they are, however, frequently either desperate or foolish. The guildmaster called a meeting; the subject was a matter of fear and curiosity that traveled up and down the ranks of its many members. Even you were moved to attend, and you are not famously noted for your sense of merchant community.
“This was well planned. Well planned. Not all of the Averalaan merchants are in attendance; some are involved in business operations outside of the city. But within the city? Only a handful of significant absences.”
“That was my thought.”
“Imagine the state of the city and its finances if almost all of the merchants of note perish tonight. The disturbance at the Authority will seem—and be—trivial in comparison. We will face almost immediate chaos, and quite possibly ruin. An enemy army in the tens of thousands could not have such catastrophic effect in so short a time.”
“The creature that attacked the Kings during the victory parade could.”
“Could it?” Jarven shook his head. “I doubt it. Kill the Kings and there will be chaos, yes—but there is a line of succession in place in the event of such an emergency. Kill The Ten and if the Houses are not entirely foolish, there will be successors in place within the week—regents if politics are too severe. But the Houses will function in predictable ways given the change of rulers. The merchant concerns will continue; the money will enter their usual coffers.
“Trade wars, on the other hand, have consequences that are both more obvious and less profound. You’ve seen your share of trade wars.”
Hectore nodded. The urge to smile had deserted him entirely.
“The city does not function on goodwill or bad; it functions on commerce and trade. Food requires, at base, money and the logistics that money provides. If you die here, Hectore, who succeeds you?”
“That is an uncomfortable question, Jarven; I am not certain I am going to answer it.”
“An answer is not necessary. You have brokered a compromise between your ambitions and the ambitions of men and women who are content to serve you as long as they profit from it. But many of those men and women are here tonight. They would not shed many tears if you perished here; they would use the opportunity to expand their own concerns. But even that expansion would serve to stabilize the wheels of commerce. If it is gone, what happens?”
“Your point is taken.”
“This is not a tactic that was attempted in 410.”
Every servant in the hall stiffened at the date, even those too young to remember it clearly.
“Andrei,” Hectore said quietly.
“I am uncertain,” his servant replied. “But I believe the barrier can be broken.”
“Uncertain?”
“If I break it now, it is likely to draw attention.” He did not add, because it was not necessary, that the attention would be magical in nature—or worse.
“They require speed,” Jarven said. “If they are wise, they will be gone within the hour; they will not leave the hall itself to attend to those who now seek escape. Those in these halls are not their target.” He paused, and then added, “It is my guess that they were to be dealt with by Bertold.”
Hectore nodded. “If they meant to be at all subtle, they might have set fire to the guildhall and merely blocked the exits.”
“Indeed. I do not think subtlety is necessarily their aim.”
Andrei said, quietly, “I ask that you all step back.”
The servants struggled to comply; those in the back were pushing toward an exit they did not realize could not be used.
Jarven folded his arms and watched; Hectore took charge of the servants. He did not raise voice or shout; he found, in situations like this, shouting was ineffective. He did, however, have a deep voice, and it carried.
“You might help,” he told Jarven, without any expectation of aid.
“I am an old man,” Jarven replied, grinning. “To be pitied, rather than obeyed. And I find your servant frightening enough that I feel compelled to watch him work.”
“Now is not the time, Jarven.”
“But it is. You trust him, of course. If he wanted you dead, you would be dead. You would have been dead decades ago—and I can honestly say I would consider that a loss. An advantage as well, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Andrei has always been a puzzle, to me. He is clearly almost preternaturally competent—but I can say that of myself. I can say that of a handful of my peers. I have seen him fight once. He is not an amateur. He does not rely—as most guards do—on size and the obvious presence of weapons to act as deterrent to prevent violence. He is exceptionally observant, and he is fast. He is not, however, Astari. He is not trained by the Lord of the Compact; I believe the Lord of the Compact considers Araven a threat in part because of your servant.”
“You will embarrass him.”
“I will do nothing of the sort. He is, in my opinion, skilled enough to serve the Astari in any of a number of roles.”
“Ah. You intend to insult him instead of embarrassing him.”
Jarven chuckled. But he did not look away from Andrei; Hectore glanced at his servant and got a very good view of his black-clad back. His shoulders were stretched, his arms raised, his hands splayed—weaponless—against the barrier. There was some indication that he was attempting to exert physical pressure against it, which Hectore would in other circumstances have considered a waste of effort.
He turned back to Jarven, who had not finished.
“He is not a member of the Order of Knowledge. He has never, to the knowledge of the guildmaster, served in any of its scattered institutions, and he has never been formally trained in any of its many halls. He has sworn no oath of allegiance to the laws that govern the use of magic; he is not, and has never been, admitted into the ranks of
the magisterial guards—or its sister organization, the Mysterium.
“Yet he is cognizant of many of the underlying principles that guide the work of the mage-born; he is notably sensitive to the detritus of magical effect.”
“He has also never been employed as a chef in any of the great houses, but you will not find a better cook. I fail to see the relevance of any of this.”
“Yes. And as you are not a fool, I assume that failure to be deliberate on your part. It is poor sportsmanship, Patris Araven. Given his sterling attributes and his unusual—and suspect—skill set, you might expect him to be treated with some suspicion.”
“He has not been, to my knowledge. He is a servant.”
“Yes. A servant who is granted entrance into the cathedrals, and granted access to the god-born upon the Isle. Have you never considered this odd?”
Hectore was tight-lipped. The ground was shaking enough that he had to brace himself and bend his knees—which were not notably flexible—in order to maintain his footing.
“I myself have always found it odd,” Jarven added.
“What I find unusual—given the circumstance—is the amount of care you have clearly taken to observe my servant. The Terafin enterprises have obviously not been difficult enough to keep you respectably busy.”
Jarven chuckled. He had not—and would not—take his eyes off Andrei, and that was unfortunate. Andrei was not in a position to hide behind his role, assuming the mantle of invisibility granted to servants by people who were not in the serving class.
Hectore considered knocking the Terafin merchant over, and decided against it; given the speed with which Jarven had avoided the demonic claws that should have ended his life, Hectore reasoned the odds were higher that he himself would end up on the floor. Andrei would then be offended at the harm to Araven’s dignity; he was almost certain to be outraged by Jarven’s frank and open appraisal.
Neither of which were of paramount import at the moment.
Andrei lowered his hands; it was not a gesture that spoke of defeat. It was a deliberate, slow tracing of the length of the barrier. Hectore could not see his expression; he was relieved to note that Jarven could not see it, either. It was the only relief he felt.
“Andrei—”
“Yes, Hectore,” Andrei replied. He turned to Jarven. “I do not know what tricks you have left up your sleeve, but consider readying them now. The magi have not—apparently—arrived.” He added, to Hectore, “You will need to wait; keep the servants here until it is safe to leave.”
Hectore did not ask how he would be able to determine safety. “And Jarven?”
“You are not—you will never be—responsible for Jarven ATerafin. I doubt even The Terafin could be.” Before he had finished speaking the last few syllables he spun on one heel. His left arm shot out—much as the demon’s had done—and he drove it through the barrier. Light blazed in the hall; it was almost blinding.
No, Hectore thought; it was blinding. The protective spells activated by the stone in his pocket shielded him from the worst of it. He noted, however, that while the servants cried out in shock, Jarven ATerafin did not; the Terafin director’s eyes were closed.
Had he ever underestimated Jarven? Yes. Once or twice. Jarven, in his turn, had underestimated Hectore of Araven. He thought, in future—in whatever future was left them—neither would be capable of making that mistake again.
And the future? It had turned. Hectore had faced assassins. Not often, but not infrequently. In his early years, when he had traveled with his own caravans, he had charted courses through bandit-heavy territory. He had played his deadly games with other merchant houses; he had played less obviously dangerous games at the tables of bankers.
He had not, until now, faced demons. He had never, until his single dinner with Ararath’s protégée, seen the high wilderness of myth made real. Andrei’s right hand struck the barrier, palm flat, and he spoke three dissonant words that echoed in the back of Hectore’s thoughts long after they could no longer be heard.
Hectore was not a man given to fear; even in the Henden of 410 it was not terror the demons had instilled, but a sense of helpless, building rage. He felt apprehension now, as shadow and darkness pooled around Andrei’s right hand, spreading outward in ripples.
Light met darkness; Andrei staggered forward, using the momentum as he tucked chin and folded the curve of his upper body into a somersault. When he came to his feet, he was on the move—and he was armed.
Jarven followed. Hectore did not try to stop him. He had a fleeting hope that the Terafin merchant might perish at the hands of whatever Andrei expected to face on the building’s exterior, but it was out of his hands. The servants were not.
“Marjorie. Tell the girls to stand by the exterior wall. It is not yet safe to leave. Kevan, do the same with the young men—take the rear and give them instructions. The hall is crowded enough there will be injuries if you cannot contain unnecessary panic.”
Marjorie said something under her breath, and Hectore grinned. “Believe that this is not the way I intended to spend my evening. We were to listen to a long-winded and pretentious discussion about an emergency; we were not meant to be embroiled in a far more deadly one.” His tone was, he knew, more important than his words, and he spoke more loudly than was his general wont; the tone itself carried.
He was aware that there was a very real possibility they might not survive, and he knew that it was uppermost in the minds of people who were not used to taking command—or the responsibility that came with it. It was not a task Hectore himself did with any relish. He did not feel responsible for the men and women undoubtedly trapped within the guildhall proper. He had expected some ugliness, the possibility of injury or even death—but not like this.
“Boy, do not stand in the doorway—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Fire gouted through that open frame, in shape—and in impact upon the facing wall—a battering ram. One girl screamed; the young man did not. He couldn’t.
Kalliaris, he thought. Smile, Lady. He knelt, briefly, by what was left of the servant’s body; it was largely unrecognizable. He was not certain that he himself would have survived, magical protections notwithstanding; the impact of the magical fire had shattered a large section of the wall.
Around him, the servants fell silent; there were muffled sobs, but no words, no more screams. They understood that they were prey, here, and like rabbits, they hoped stillness and silence would prevent attraction of predatory attention.
It was more than he had hoped for; he was, as they were, silent and watchful. He carried no meaningful weapons; he relied—as he often had—on Andrei. On Andrei, who had entered the back halls bleeding.
He listened; he heard the sound of metal striking metal—or stone; he heard movement; the breaking of branches. He heard the crackle of flame, and he heard a roar that contained syllables almost too guttural to be language. In response, he heard a familiar voice reply, and he shivered: Andrei was laughing. His voice was high and tense, and his reply—his reply was also linguistically impossible—but it was not bestial.
Hectore pushed Marjorie out of the way, breaking his own command: he moved quickly toward the open doorway. He was almost too late.
“Andrei!”
Light. There was light. And shadow. And fire. At the heart of it, surrounded by all three, imbued by them, Andrei. It was hard to make out the form of the Araven servant; the heat shed by fire distorted everything.
Ah, lies. He could see the demon. He could see the demon, and the red, red blade in the demon’s hand; the red shield. He could see the shadow that rose from his back like wings, and the ebon line that bisected his forehead like a crown. Gods must have looked like this in the deadly glory of their distant youth.
And man, Hectore thought, must have looked as he did: old, tired, and powerless. He left the hall, stepping onto scorche
d grass. “Andrei.”
“I would not interfere, were I you,” a familiar voice said.
“You are not, and have never been, me,” Hectore snapped.
“His foe is not—”
“Andrei!”
The demon’s sword traced a red arc—two—through the air where seconds before Andrei had stood. He had not rolled, had not thrown himself to the side, had not parried; he had leaped. The sky contained him. Hectore whispered a single word, a name that was already fast becoming too small, too insignificant to contain him.
“What is this?” the demon said, and he turned to look down upon Hectore. Had he been Hectore’s height, he would nonetheless have dwarfed him. He was not; he was larger, wilder; his danger could not be contained by shape.
And yet, it was.
The demon gestured; fire surrounded Hectore in an instant. It did not consume him, although he felt its intense heat. He knew that the stone for which he had paid so much would be useless after this eve; he did not think it would save his life again.
But he smiled through the thin wall of fire as Andrei plummeted groundward, the ruins of his jacket smoking, the daggers in his hands glowing faintly as he plunged them into the demon’s back.
The fires that caged Hectore banked sharply as he slid his hands into his pockets. Jarven was not wrong. The creature itself was too much for Andrei. But the Araven merchant had seen what neither Andrei nor the demon had yet noticed: the distant glimmer of blue light and fire, the lightning that had nothing to do with natural storm.
The magi had arrived.
Chapter Six
7th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Order of Knowledge, Averalaan Aramarelas
SLEEP MADE A SOUND when it shattered. Matteos Corvel rose before his eyes were half open; he was dressed before he noticed the chilly, dark environs of his tower room. The door to that room was ajar, although he hadn’t yet crossed the floor. Even in emergencies, the magi required clothing. Warm clothing.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 15