“It was a request, Jarven,” Finch said, correcting him in a tone that would have made Lucille proud.
“That, too.” Jarven’s smile sharpened. He looked twenty years younger in an instant, and the shifting line of his shoulders made clear that the doddering and meandering old man had been banished for at least one dinner. “It’s clear to me that you have no parents,” he told her.
Finch sighed. “I have Lucille. You are, no doubt, about to warn me that I will be judged by the company I keep.”
“Indeed. And to warn you about what lurks in the hearts of all men.”
“Given at least present company, what lurks in the hearts of all men must be the soul of a very mischievous boy. I am somewhat grateful to you,” she added, as she began to walk toward the doors of the wing. “Hectore is so accustomed to your presence in the Merchant Authority, he has practically been trained to overlook minor offenses. I am certain that nothing I say or do will, therefore, have significant and lasting consequences.”
• • •
Hectore arrived on time, as he often did. He felt no particular need to impress, but chose to dress as if visiting royalty. Given the relative rank of Terafin in the Empire, such style would never be considered obsequious. There had been some heated argument about the style of Andrei’s clothing, however; Hectore considered Andrei to be an actual, specified guest.
Andrei considered himself to be Hectore’s servant, pointing out that Finch had not, in fact, addressed the invitation to him personally. Andrei therefore arrived at the Terafin manse as he arrived at any other. He was silent, but present.
Hectore was not surprised to find Finch, Jarven, and Haval waiting for him. “Terafin has very exalted pages,” he said, bowing to Finch before he offered her his arm. Haval stepped aside to allow them both to pass; Jarven seemed content to keep Haval’s company. Hectore chuckled at Andrei’s expression, although he couldn’t, with any manners, turn to actually look at it.
Finch inquired after the health of his family; she asked for news of his grandchildren. This also caused Andrei to grimace—or perhaps not. Andrei, in this manor, was on alert. Hectore was happy enough to answer her questions, and they progressed from the foyer to the doors of The Terafin’s personal chambers in a state of pleasant self-indulgence.
The Chosen on duty—there were four—stepped aside to allow their party to pass through the doors that Finch herself opened. This was not generally done—but Hectore understood that the nature of the rooms—and possibly the door itself—demanded a more flexible sense of protocol and etiquette.
On the far side of doors that magically became a single wrought iron arch the moment one passed between them, stood the right-kin, Teller ATerafin. He was flanked by Jester ATerafin and Birgide Viranyi.
“Patris Araven,” the right-kin said. He bowed; the bow was respectful, but not obsequious. In contrast, Jester ATerafin offered Hectore the slight incline of chin; an acknowledgment of his presence, rather than the superiority of his rank. The gesture itself, however, was bright and strangely lively; there was very little ego in it. The pale, red-haired stripling did not feel he had anything to prove to any of the visitors.
Ah, no. The nod he offered Jarven was distinctly stiff. Finch’s request that Jarven treat Jester with respect had been, in Hectore’s estimation, wasted. The young man—and that, perhaps, was an exaggeration—did not, and would not, warm to Jarven.
Jarven did not consider Jester a threat—and why would he? In the end, Jester was a man who devoted his life to passing entertainment, idle gossip, idle drinking. He might have been born to the patriciate, given his general attitude, but even so, his beginnings were not something he scrupled to hide.
He waited, guest rather than host; it was Finch who led, Hectore by her side. Jarven chose to walk to the other side of Finch. Nothing in his expression betrayed his surprise; if he had not seen these chambers before, he had been told, clearly, what they contained. His eyes flickered briefly across the cloudless amethyst of sky; night did not fall in these chambers. Beneath them, trees grew as bookshelves to the right, as far as the eye—or Hectore’s eye—could see; these were worthy of more of Jarven’s attention, but even so, the attention was focused and almost casual.
But he was alert, this Jarven. Hectore had not realized how very bored Jarven had become in his old age until this moment. He glanced at Andrei. Andrei was watching Jarven as well, and probably with the same realization. He did not, on the other hand, find it encouraging or amusing. Hectore found it . . . bracing. Like a cold, clean winter wind.
Finch brought them to plain, wooden gabling. It was not in keeping with the rest of the otherworldly decor; it seemed too simple, too unremarkable. And that, Hectore thought, was of a piece with the master of this vast, endless space: at heart, what she wanted was not large and otherworldly. He opened the gate, and held it.
Finch inhaled.
“You don’t care for these rooms?” he asked.
She smiled. “I am old-fashioned, Patris Araven. These rooms are the pinnacle of power in Terafin—but not even The Terafin wished to occupy them. She was happy in the West Wing.” Her smile dimmed. “We miss her.”
“You see, Andrei?” Hectore said. “Not all people of power disavow sentiment.”
Andrei, predictably, did not respond.
• • •
The room was not large. It was certainly well appointed, but the table at which Hectore had last dined could not comfortably seat them all. Accommodations had been made, and the table had been removed, to be replaced by one that was longer and narrower. The sideboard still occupied one wall. Andrei chose to take up position beside it, waiting while the guests seated themselves.
Finch did not call him to the table. She did, however, remind him that the Terafin Household Staff was responsible for serving the meal itself; they would arrive shortly with the first course. Even this was a breach of etiquette, which Andrei, at least, understood.
Apparently, so did Jarven, but he found it amusing. As if he could hear the thoughts Hectore himself was too well-mannered to put into words, Jarven said, “I have chosen to find it amusing. I suggest, for the sake of your appetite and consideration to our kitchens, that you endeavor to do the same.”
Finch reddened, but did not otherwise appear to hear him.
“You find far too much amusing,” Haval Arwood now said. “I consider the amount of effort you expend in this particular case to be negligible.”
Jarven chuckled in response. Haval did not appear to approve of Jarven, and his disapproval seemed in line with Andrei’s. Birgide Viranyi was seated beside Jester; she was careful not to look often in Andrei’s direction. She did, however, seem comfortable with Jester ATerafin. Who, in turn, appeared entirely at home in this strange room, in this gathering of people. If it was true that he did not like Jarven, he was vastly more careful in expression of that dislike than Hectore’s own servant.
Only two of the Chosen remained in the room itself, not surprising given the room’s dimensions. Like Andrei, they were part of the decor, although they were armored and armed. Or perhaps, Hectore thought, they were only part of the decor to those accustomed to the great houses of the city. He knew the Chosen of Terafin only by reputation.
Andrei poured—and offered—both wine and water. It would have amused Hectore immensely had the offerings from the Terafin cellar been poor; he was not entirely certain that Andrei would not have sent the bottles back with a terse demand that they correct the obvious oversight. He did not, however.
“I am pleased that you could accept my invitation on such short notice,” Finch told the table; she seemed to mean it. “Haval, I believe you’ve seen The Terafin’s chambers—as her personal tailor—before; Hectore has likewise been guest here. Jarven is the only man present who is seeing them for the first time in their newly remodeled state.”
“Jarven,” Jarven sa
id, accepting the wine Andrei offered, “feels slightly insulted at being left out for so long. You are telling me that a Terafin gardener is considered—”
“She is Household Staff. If you wish to take umbrage, I am certain the Master of the Household Staff—or in this case the Master Gardener—would be delighted to entertain your complaints.” This was said with an indulgent smile.
“You have, without doubt, met this Master of the Household Staff,” Jarven replied.
Hectore, of course, had not.
“She is unlikely to harm you.” After a pause, Finch’s smile deepened. “My apologies, Patris Araven; we speak of minor household matters. Lucille is generally considered intimidating in the extreme—but everyone in the House feels the reason she has refused quarters within the manse is, in fact, the woman in charge of the Household Staff.”
“I had heard she did not wish to clash with The Terafin.”
“That is possibly what is spoken on the outside. Again, apologies.”
“Don’t waste the breath on them,” Jarven replied in Hectore’s stead. “Yes, I have not seen these chambers before, and yes, as you expect, I find them astonishing. Bracing, even. Does it rain here?”
“Not so far.”
“Will it?”
“The Terafin was uncertain. Given the books, it is to be hoped it will not.”
“And the rooms?”
“Her personal chambers—which we will not, of course, see—and a conference room of much larger dimensions. I had considered holding the dinner in that room.”
“And decided against it?”
“The floor is stone, as are the walls; even the softest whisper echoes. It is . . . very martial in appearance; such a dinner might be held with as much comfort in the older armories in the manse proper.”
“I would love a tour of the less personal rooms,” Hectore said.
Andrei coughed. It was a polite, minimal sound that nonetheless spoke volumes. No one with manners noticed; The Terafin’s inner council—the people she called her den—were not, however, sufficiently polished. Not even Finch.
“These rooms are not considered entirely safe,” Finch said. “Or rather, the space between the rooms. Member APhaniel has taken up temporary residence in it for that reason. What he encounters here, he destroys. It is, however, in part to speak of the significance of these rooms and what they contain that I have invited you here.” She hesitated, and then shook her head. “It was brought to my attention that you entertained the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge yesterday.”
“By who?” Hectore asked mildly, although his gaze flicked the side of Jarven’s face.
“I do not recall. If it becomes relevant, I’m certain I will.”
Hectore nodded. He glanced at Birgide, but Birgide was speaking softly with Jester. “These rooms are of relevance to Araven?”
“They are, in my opinion, of relevance to all of Averalaan,” Finch replied. “I have not spoken of one room, within the small complex of The Terafin’s personal rooms.”
This caught the attention of both Jester and Teller.
“Were you to enter those rooms, you would find them at odds with the Terafin manse in every architectural way; the ceilings are low, the floors are worn, the rooms are very small and very poorly appointed.”
“She had these rooms built?”
“No. They are rooms that are, to the finest detail, rooms that we occupied for a brief period when we were children. You are old enough to remember the Henden of 410.”
Hectore nodded.
“Those rooms and that childhood are rooted in the experience of that Henden, although we did not know it at the time.”
Andrei had returned to the sideboard.
“There was, once, a city—a different city—that stood in this location. It is possible, according to the Order of Knowledge, that there have been several. But the one city is significant. And it exists beneath the streets of the hundred holdings, even now.”
The door to the room opened, and three servants, wearing the blues of the Household Staff, entered, pushing wheeled trays. Hectore, accustomed to the invisibility of the servants, would have failed to notice them; he almost did.
But Birgide Viranyi’s sudden stiffness served as warning; she glanced at the door, at the servants, and last, at Andrei, who appeared not to notice as they placed various dishes on the sideboard. He abandoned his position by that wall, although he did not join the party at the table; no seat had been set for him.
The servants—one woman, two men—had the crisp, starched silence of exemplary servants in any House; their economy of movements implied stately grace, rather than hurried bustle. They were not, of course, friendly, but no one expected that of the Terafin servants; they would likely lose their jobs, otherwise.
They did, and said, nothing untoward; they did not arm themselves, they did not call upon any hidden mage-born talent; they served.
It was only when the first course was brought to the table that Hectore frowned. He glanced across the room at Andrei. If Andrei noticed anything untoward, his disapproval was hidden in the stiffness of his posture.
“Is there a difficulty, Hectore?” Jarven asked.
Hectore’s gaze lifted to meet Finch’s; hers was occupied. She was looking—as Hectore had—at the shallow dishes in which soup had been served. They were, to Hectore’s eye, fine dishes, all; they were slender and light and in perfect repair; gold and platinum formed crescent patterns around their edges.
But they were not the dishes that Hectore had seen at his dinner with Jewel. He waited on Finch to start the meal. Finch’s hands fluttered deliberately over her cutlery.
Teller’s hands, however, did not. He nodded once—to Birgide; at his back, Hectore heard the movements of the Chosen.
“Hectore,” Jarven said, in the mildest and softest of all of his many voices.
Hectore rose. He was both polite and diffident in his movements. “If I find this is some mischief of yours,” he told the Terafin merchant, “Terafin and Araven will be at war until you expire of old age.”
“Have you not heard that only the good die young?” Jarven, the bastard, was amused. Highly amused. “I am merely a guest; I assure you that the events of this evening cannot be laid at my feet.”
Haval Arwood lifted a spoon. There was a long, silent moment.
Birgide Viranyi broke it. She rose. “I think it best,” she told them all, “that you refrain from eating for the moment. There has clearly been some difficulty in the kitchen.”
• • •
Everything happened at once.
The two servants at the sideboard turned instantly, shedding the stiffness that servants of quality exuded as a matter of course.
The servant nearest the table threw the dish in her hands and pulled two slender knives. In any other circumstance, Hectore would have assumed he had wandered into the first iteration of a very haphazard play.
She was not, however, the only person who was armed; Jester now shoved his chair back from the table. The Chosen moved; Birgide moved. Even the right-kin moved. The only person at the table who seemed entirely unflustered by this sudden shift in servant demeanor was Finch. Hectore caught a glimpse of her expression as Andrei stepped between his master and anything else that moved: it was grim, set, and almost painfully resigned.
The knives the woman had drawn were throwing knives.
They flew.
They flew, unerringly, toward Finch.
• • •
I don’t like it, Jester had said. I don’t like it at all.
I know.
I won’t do it.
Finch had said nothing. A long, bitter nothing.
Jay wouldn’t do it.
That was the heart of the matter. Finch didn’t argue the point directly. She wouldn’t need to do it. And if we were
different people, if we could make different choices, neither would we. I could just arrange to have the dangerous people put out of the way. I have the knowledge and the contacts, at this point, to do it.
Jester was silent.
And I can’t. I can’t, because Jay wouldn’t allow it. What she’ll do in self-defense she would never do in any other way.
I won’t tell her, Jester finally countered. Kill them. Have them killed. I don’t care. I won’t tell her.
But Finch shook her head. I’ve considered it. I’ve considered almost nothing else for days, now. Jarven considers us quaint. It’s his polite word for stupid.
...You’ve discussed this with Jarven.
Yes.
Did he bring it up?
Does it matter? You can talk to the Master of the Household Staff.
It is not exactly trivial—
Neither is this.
Have you spoken to Teller about this?
What do you think?
That you haven’t. He wouldn’t risk the guests. It would be too politically costly, and the deaths of outsiders would force the Kings’ hands.
Do you think he cares whether or not the Kings’ hands are forced? The Kings were there on the day The Terafin died—and yet, Terafin is still materially untouched. There was a demon, and the Kings, in the end, did not act. Do you honestly think an assassination will somehow be enough of a pretext?
Yes. In the end, it was The Terafin who died. If Hectore is killed—a powerful, respected man with a fortune of his own—it will be more significant. Jester did not walk out on the conversation. Finch, why?
Because it has to be stopped, and this is the cleanest way to do it. Yes, it’s dangerous. It’s always more dangerous. But it’s harder to make mistakes that can’t be fixed. Speak to the Master of the Household Staff.
What do you want me to say?
She had smiled. Arrange for dinner. Tell her where it will be. That’s all. If nothing happens, we’re wrong.
And if something does?
She had only smiled. She knew who the target would be.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 77