“No. It may not be widespread; we have had only a few days, and inquiries of this kind have to be handled with care.” Or, in Jester’s case, with alcohol. She failed to mention this. “We know that at least two other Houses suffered shockingly similar deaths and dismemberments—but in both cases, the victims died. There was no chance at all that they could be saved; even had a healer been on hand—and I am not familiar with the disposition of the healer-born in other Houses—they would have been unable to preserve the victims.”
“Which means the knowledge of the Terafin girl’s survival is known to the assailant.”
“That is the supposition we are now working with. We cannot, of course, be certain that the victims in the other Houses were also Astari.”
Jarven nodded. “You suspect that they were.”
“None of the victims were inherently powerful; none occupied positions of note within their Houses. They were the type of desultory spy that one expects Duvari to place all over the Empire as a matter of course.”
“Which is not an answer.”
“We would have suspected nothing of the sort, had the Terafin servant not survived. We would have had other concerns, of course. We have already launched an internal investigation. It is . . . not going smoothly.”
“And this is why you are concerned.”
“We’re almost certain there is some demonic or magical involvement. And Jarven? I am done with demons. I could live a hundred lifetimes absent their presence and it wouldn’t be long enough.” She lowered her head.
“You are afraid that Duvari will kill your healer.”
“Yes. We have taken some precautions—but I’m unwilling to give up the healer, and Jay—The Terafin—would stand behind that decision with her life.”
“If, by stand behind that decision, you mean she would attempt to neutralize Duvari, she would lose.”
Finch said nothing for one long beat. “I will take the matter to the Kings, if any harm—any—befalls him.”
“That would be politically costly, as you well know.”
“Yes. But it is a price I am willing to pay. I will take the matter to The Ten as the Terafin regent, and I will demand justice. I will not play games of proof; I will not dance in the shadows with Duvari and his Astari. He is what he is—but he serves, and answers to, the Kings—and I will make the Kings answer to Terafin.”
“You will not have the support of The Ten should you choose to do this.”
“I will have the support of some of them, and if they would be wisely unwilling to attach their names to my petition, they would welcome it. Duvari has long been a thorn in everyone’s side. To see him leashed or muzzled would delight them; they will not stand in my way to curry favor with the Kings.”
“Well,” Jarven said, pausing to snap a biscuit in half, “I better understand your sour expression. You have been thinking.”
“I am unwilling to pay that price if it is not necessary. But I will demand everything short of Duvari’s death if Daine dies. And Jarven—I mean everything. The Ten tolerate Duvari; the Crowns tolerate the laws of exception. If Duvari killed me, if he killed Teller, we would accept it as part of the bitter cost of power.”
“But not your young healer.”
“No. I would accept Jay’s death. I will not accept Daine’s.”
“And you are telling me this because?”
“You asked. I would prefer that this be dealt with through the regular channels, of course.” She exhaled, losing inches and anger as she spread her palms in her lap. She did not take up the cup again because her hands were too unsteady. “Let me ask you again: How important is Duvari? Or rather, how important are the Astari, and could they function without him?”
“Given the rest of your speech, I am not certain it is prudent to answer that question. But I will attempt to maintain some faith in you, although I confess it badly shaken.
“The Astari are necessary; they protect the Kings. I do not know what the Astari would be should Duvari die—but it will not, for the first few years, be pretty. He is strong enough to dispense with both charm and lie; he curries favor with no one. He will not bend—but, Finch, he does not break. I do not think there is an assassin alive who could kill him; there are very, very few of any quality who would accept the commission were they offered it. He is, as you know, a necessary evil.”
“And if the Astari have been compromised completely?”
Jarven rose. “You almost make me feel old, Finch. May I point out that I do not enjoy the sensation?”
“Yes.” She rose to pour more tea. Jarven, at least, had been drinking his.
“There is only one way that the Astari could be completely compromised.”
“That,” Finch replied quietly, “is what I now fear.”
“You will not take this to the Kings.”
“No. If I am willing to go to war against Duvari, desperation drives me; I am not desperate to preserve either the Astari or the Lord of the Compact in a similar fashion. I will, if resources permit, approach such matters through the regular channels. One of which was meant to be my appointment with Hectore this afternoon.”
Jarven sighed theatrically. “We will be here as soon as humanly possible; given the merchants, even I cannot guarantee that we will be on time. I would,” he added, voice softer and vastly less frail, “leave Hectore in control of the Merchants’ Guild if that struck me as the wise option.”
“Hectore is highly respected; he is a merchant of long-standing and credible wealth.”
“All of that is true. He is also better at dealing with the wheedling and the self-aggrandizing.”
“But you won’t.”
“I do not believe, at the moment, that it is in our best interests.”
“Who is ‘our’ in this case?”
“Mine, of course.” His smile was thin. “We are, at the moment, working in grudging lockstep. If Hectore was to take the leadership of the tattered guild into his capable hands, I am not certain that that would be the case. And, Finch, Hectore is no fool. He would just as soon grab fire and hold it in cupped palms, had he any choice.”
“I disagree.”
“You, my dear, have not been present at the council meetings. Perhaps I will send you in my place.”
She failed to smile in response.
His smile—which was a thin edge of an expression—faded. “Have you chosen to approach Duvari?”
“Word has been carried.”
“By a messenger you trust?”
“By a messenger who has not been compromised, yes.”
“And that is why you are wearing that dress.”
She exhaled. “Yes, Jarven. Tell me one thing.”
“And that?”
“Will the Kings survive if the Astari have been infiltrated by demons?”
“Not if their point of entry is Duvari. When will you know?”
“It depends on how clever demons are,” Finch replied. “But they know that we suspect, and some precautions outside of the purview of the Astari have been taken. I can only see two routes to take, in this situation.”
“You can see more than two.”
“Given our history with demons, I can see only two that are likely. The first—and the one that we hope for: the demons attack us, in the Terafin manse.”
“And the second is that they attack the Kings.”
“They’ve done as much damage to this city with the attack on the Merchants’ Guild as they could have done with armies. More, I think. But it was not subtle; it was bold; loud. They did not expect to fail.”
“They did, however.”
“Yes. But there is an arrogance that assigns failure to the incompetence of others, and not to the competence of the targets.”
“Very well. I concur. They are capable of subtlety. They are capable of perfect mimic
ry.”
“It’s not mimicry.”
“Oh?”
“They inhabit the bodies of their victims. I don’t believe all demons are capable of this—but those that are can be incredibly effective. They have access to the memories of those victims, although it is not said to be perfect access; they can inhabit a dead body for a day or two, if the victim did not survive.”
“It is not said by who?”
“The Terafin House mage. The mimicry is subtle, yes. But when they cast it aside they do so in the loudest and flashiest way possible. The House mage believes it is almost impossible for the kin to view mere mortals as serious threats.”
“And that is our only advantage?”
“No; we have others. But he considers it a large advantage. Before you make that face at me, none of this has been discussed by the House Council. So access to the House Council seat would not materially change the information you now have.”
“I am attempting to manage my resentment in constructive ways,” he replied. “It would have been useful to have this information before the events at the guildhall.”
“Meralonne feels that people are far too prone to panic, and the Kings apparently agree.”
“He is not wrong. Panic, however, is a useful tool when wielded correctly.”
Finch was not surprised by his response. “It is seldom wielded correctly by anyone but demons—and I would prefer that there be some distinguishing, mortal characteristics that divide us.”
He nodded. “It is, in the end, far less harrowing than the Henden of 410. I remember you, then. You seemed so fragile I thought Lucille would actually hit me when I told her I would not see you sent home. Do you honestly think that Duvari himself has been compromised?”
Finch hesitated. “Not yet.”
“Why or why not?”
“Jarven, now is not the time for lessons.”
“All of life is a lesson, Finch, as you should well know. The most valuable things you have learned from me were not explicitly taught; they were derived entirely by observation and experience. I intervened only when I thought the cost of your decisions would be too high—for you. But I am not, now, playing games.” At her expression, he added, “Yes, yes, I realize we use different definitions for those words.
“Tell me.”
“The victims. If multiple people are taken out in an obvious, violent fashion—and if those victims are all Astari, it’s possible that Duvari has been compromised, and the Astari are being eliminated from the bottom up. But that makes no sense, to me. By doing it, he alerts every person who isn’t compromised. He increases the precautions that must be taken.”
“That is true only if the Kings are the actual targets.”
Finch nodded, lost in thought. “If, however, they are aiming at Duvari, the deaths make perfect sense. They isolate him; they isolate the Astari; they sow a level of distrust and discord that the Astari probably don’t experience often. If Duvari’s Astari are paralyzed—” She stopped. Frowned.
Jarven glanced at the corner of the room, where his coat, his hat, and his gloves were neatly put away. “It is time for me to make my way to the Order of Knowledge.”
“The meeting is there?”
“We have been given a lecture hall within the main building until the investigation is done.” He glanced at Finch, who sat quietly in her chair, turning scenarios over and over; examining them for flaws, rating their probability. She looked up when he cleared his throat.
“Apologies,” she said, as she retrieved his coat and his walking stick. Whatever advantage she accrued from her new position, Jarven still expected her to wait on him.
“Finch.”
She looked up.
“Be careful.”
“I could offer you the same advice.”
“First, it is not advice. It is an order. It merely sounds like advice because you have chosen to misinterpret my tone. Second, death—while not to be desired, especially if the death on offer is painful and long—is coming for me anyway. If I sit this out and do nothing, I will merely prolong boredom and ineffectiveness. This is not the case, with you.
“At my age, I an unlikely to find or train new protégées. You are, therefore, my only hope of lasting legacy.”
She handed him his walking stick only after he had donned—with her help—his fussy coat. “You don’t care about legacy, Jarven.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps. I do not like the direction your thoughts have taken in the last five minutes; they make me uneasy.”
13th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas
Birgide Viranyi stood in the inner offices of the Royal Trade Commission. The office was only skeletally staffed; the crisis that had, in one evening, damaged the city so badly necessitated Patris Larkasir’s presence in the Merchants’ Guild, and he was old enough—and angry enough—that it was not deemed wise to have him travel alone.
Devon was, of course, by his side. As the man considered most likely to succeed Larkasir in his role with the Trade Commission, he was privy to all of the relevant economic discussions; if he had duties to the Astari, they would be left untended in the near future. Devon served the Kings, and the Kings had decided that his work with Patris Larkasir superseded all other duties.
Birgide glanced at her hands and grimaced. There was dirt under her fingernails, and her attempts to remove it had not been entirely successful. Duvari met with people from all walks of life—but in his own way, he was fastidious. He would notice. The man noticed everything.
Her discussion with Jester—and her wordless acceptance of the responsibility laid across her shoulders by, of all things, a forest—had had subtle, but immediate effects. She experienced one of them now: she glanced down at the rows of desks, bound on three sides by standing cabinets that served as demi-walls, and saw webbing. It was very fine, and reminded her, on first glance, of the complicated but delicate strands spiders wove.
First glance, however, yielded a second. The strands were not the pale white of webs meant for insects; they were colored, and they shone faintly, from floor to the height of ceiling or cabinet or desk. They had no physical component; she could, with ease, pass through them without causing them material damage. But as she did, they thrummed like struck strings, as if they were parts of an instrumental whole.
Birgide was a botanist, not a bard; if she heard musical notes, she couldn’t make sense of them; she had the suspicion that a song could be played—but she lacked the necessary tools. The notes were pleasant, for the most part; arranging them meaningfully was, at the moment, beyond her.
They did not alarm her. She was almost certain that they implied the presence of relatively normal magic; the Terafin manse was likewise adorned with similar webs. Only in the right-kin’s office did they approach this density; if anything, it was stronger, there.
She had undertaken an informal tour of the Terafin manse, Jester ATerafin by her side. His presence eased her passage; if the Household Staff looked askance, most of their raised brows or stiff lips were directed at the red-haired, flamboyant Jester. She almost faded into invisibility by his side, and because she had, she was free to leave it; to wander, in silence, studying every entrance, every exit, and every hidden door.
They encountered both House Guard and Chosen; Jester was familiar with, it seemed, every member of the Household involved in service. If the guards were not friendly, they were, to Birgide’s eye, less alert—with the exception of the Chosen. They responded to Jester, but they did not lose sight of her. She wasn’t, at this point, concerned.
She asked Jester only a few questions; given his expression, he considered them random, but relatively harmless. And so: she had a view of the Terafin manse that she had never had before. She stopped only once with open concern.
“Where does this lead?” she asked, her hand hovering above a sect
ion of wood paneling in one of the function rooms.
Jester frowned. “The back halls, normally.”
She raised a brow.
“Have I offended?”
“In general, you put more effort into your evasive answers.”
He laughed. “This is going to be a problem,” he told her.
“Your evasiveness?”
“My lack of same. You are indirectly correct; I tell the truth so seldom I am unaccustomed to putting much effort into its delivery. Truths,” he added, “are seldom interesting, and people misuse them so frequently.”
“It is to be hoped that The Terafin does not share this assessment.”
“The Terafin lives in a mound of political paperwork while spineless rats nibble at her skirts. No, as you suspect, she does not. All attempts to shift her position with regards to truth have failed utterly; she is honest or she is silent. She is not,” he added, an odd smile changing the shape of his mouth, “silent often enough.”
“She is not terribly chatty,” Birgide replied.
“Why are you asking about this door?”
“I do not believe it currently leads to the back halls. Would it be safe to test that theory?” When Jester failed to answer, she turned from her inspection to see that his skin—unfortunately consistently too pale—was a shade of something closer to gray than white. “I will assume that the answer is no.”
Jester nodded. “You will have to excuse me,” he said, offering her a perfunctory, distracted bow. “If I may leave you here, allow no one to enter this door. If someone exits it, that’s fine—but they are not to return to the back halls the same way.”
“Where are you going?”
“To summon the House Mage,” he replied, his words flying over his shoulder as he began to sprint down the gallery.
“Wait!” She turned toward one of the House Guard. He was perhaps a year or two older than Birgide. His expression had hardened, his eyes had narrowed, his skin had paled. Whatever had caused Jester to seek the House Mage, this man understood.
Jester cursed. To Birgide’s surprise, he cursed in street Torra, and he didn’t scruple to do so under his breath. “Have you got this?” he asked the guard.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 50