Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  Her only connection with the brother of her childhood and youth was Jewel. They had both loved him, in entirely different ways, and they both grieved at his death.

  Hectore of Araven had been Rath’s godfather. What Jewel wanted from Hectore was what Amarais had wanted from Jewel: Rath. Memories of Rath that were not her own, because those memories made him real. They made him relevant to someone who was not her.

  And did it matter? With the whole of the House hanging upon the Kings, The Ten, with Carver and Ellerson gone, with Celleriant, Snow, Night, and the Winter King likewise silent and absent, could she indulge the melancholy she felt for one dead man? She could justify it, certainly. Hectore of Araven was a wealthy, powerful merchant. His reach was long, and the danger he could present, obvious. As an ally, he was invaluable; none could argue against closer ties with Araven.

  She was grasping for justification as she came, at last, to another arch. To her surprise, it was not like the arches that led to the manse or the war room; it was far too simple for that. On first glance, it seemed a very quaint gate of the type that would grace small homes, and small plots: it was wooden, with simple hinges, and it reached Jewel’s shoulders, no more. It hung on a thick beam that was unadorned in every way.

  “This?” Avandar asked.

  She nodded.

  “If you will wait,” he said, making of the request a command, “I will inform your maid of its location.” Before she could reply, he added, “The Master of the Household Staff will require at least that much information; she will not receive it immediately if you insist upon entering that room—if it leads to a room—without me, because I will not convey the message.”

  She waited. She would rather face demonic assassins every morning over breakfast than an angry—well, angrier—Master of the Household Staff. But when Avandar returned, she swung the gate open and entered the room first. Shadow was by her side, close enough that he could easily step on her skirt. He did.

  * * *

  When Hectore of Araven entered the foyer of the Terafin manse, he was surprised to see The Terafin herself waiting for him. She was not, of course, alone, but in no other manse in the world would her attendant have been a sleek and very dangerous large cat. He was gray, winged, and unfortunately fanged; those fangs caught rather more of the chandelier light than ideal.

  The Chosen, of course, were also present, but Hectore was more than capable of ignoring them as part of the scenery or the architecture; he was likewise fully capable of disregarding the domicis who stood farther back. Even in meetings considered completely private, she would not divest herself of the latter. Hectore was not a close personal friend; nor was he a trusted ally. He would have been surprised, and possibly unnecessarily suspicious, had she appeared without them.

  Andrei immediately took a step back, to occupy the theoretically invisible space to his master’s left. Although Araven did employ House Guards, they were purely for show, and if Hectore would have felt discomfited to greet The Terafin shorn of her Chosen and her servants, he had no compunctions about presenting himself in a way that implied both trust and vulnerability. He was not, cat aside, afraid of this girl.

  He tendered The Terafin a bow that implied healthy respect, a sign of caution. He then offered her his arm. She placed her hand upon it; it was not entirely steady. So, he made her nervous, did he? He smiled.

  “I am filled with gratitude,” he told her, as she led him to the staircase that was the visual center of the foyer, “that you have taken the time to dine with me; I am aware that you are much in demand at the moment.”

  She lifted a brow and he chuckled. “My right-kin insists,” she replied, “that I eat. And if I am to fulfill that responsibility, I see no reason to do so in isolation.” She hesitated. He marked it. “You might be unaware of some of the architectural changes—within my own manse—that have occurred since I took power.”

  Interesting. “I am impressed that you have had the time, Terafin. You make me feel every year of my age.”

  She hesitated again. The hesitations were slight; in a larger group, they might have passed beneath his notice. They walked in silence up a considerable number of stairs, and from there, down a hall that was wide enough to be public. The hall itself, with the exception of the Chosen stationed at double doors, was empty, excluding present company. The walls were adorned with paintings, all of figures, all historical rulers of the House this young woman currently called her own.

  The Chosen stepped aside. They saluted The Terafin, but did not otherwise speak. She did, and the doors rolled open. Hand still upon Hectore’s arm, The Terafin stepped through the opened doors; Hectore came with her.

  * * *

  “This,” she said, speaking softly, “is my library.”

  Hectore was, for a moment, speechless. He stood beneath a ceiling of amethyst which looked, to his eye, to be sky. He saw trees in the distance, and as his eyes accustomed themselves to the brilliance of the light, saw that shelves grew from them, in neat and even rows, as if they were simply branches. The floor beneath his feet was the only thing in the room that appeared normal, although it was pale in color.

  “I hope,” he said, as he found his voice, “that I have not been gaping.”

  “You have not,” was her grave reply.

  It was impossible, as he stood in this room, not to feel dwarfed. He could barely see wall, and at that, only in one direction. Nor was it an interior wall. He lowered his arm, and she withdrew her hand.

  “Can that possibly be sky?” he asked.

  In answer, the great, gray cat leaped, wings spreading in a snap of motion. He rose, becoming smaller and smaller as Hectore watched. “Architectural changes?” he asked, and then, when she failed to answer, he laughed.

  He might have continued to do so, but his gaze fell upon Andrei.

  Andrei was pale and still; it was exactly the wrong sort of stillness. “Are we in any danger, Terafin?” he asked, sobering.

  “Not at present.”

  “And were we, would you have warning?”

  “Yes. It would not be a subtle warning; some of my servants are incapable of subtlety.” She glanced, briefly, at the sky.

  “Are we then to picnic in your library?”

  “No, Patris Araven; I believe the entire House Council would frown—severely—on so informal a meal with such an illustrious guest. Please, follow me.”

  * * *

  Andrei’s utter silence reminded Hectore of why he had come. Had it not, the existence of this place, this library, would have. The Terafin had, indirectly, been linked to the fate of those felled by the sleeping sickness. That sickness had taken from Hectore a beloved grandchild. Had he been inclined to dismiss the connection—a connection Andrei considered tenuous—this visit would have destroyed the inclination in its entirety.

  Hectore had survived a tumultuous life, sometimes with difficulty. He had learned, at an early age, to trust his instincts; they were all but shouting now. But they were shouting at cross purposes. This young woman—and to Hectore, she was young—he liked. She had the polish of the patriciate, but it did not come easily to her; she labored under its dictates, the way one might labor to speak clearly in a language other than one’s mother tongue.

  He did not believe she would knowingly be responsible for his granddaughter’s death.

  But this library, as she had called it, was in its entirety a thing beyond Hectore’s vast experience. He was, by nature, a gambler—as most merchants must be at heart. He would have bet a large amount of his vast, personal fortune that this library was also beyond her experience. He had ties, after all, to the Guild of Makers, and he had, twice, seen the interior of Fabril’s reach. He had seen things made, things crafted, by people whose link to sanity was tenuous on a slow day—and nonexistent, otherwise—and he had seen the results of their glorious, disturbing madness.

  He had seen nothing to compare to this. The trees here grew shelves. The ceiling was sky, and at that, a sky under which
no mortals labored. Only the floors beneath his feet had the solidity of the mundane. He did not doubt that death could be found in the stacks here. Nor did he doubt that knowledge was tucked across its vast shelves. What he doubted, as he glanced at The Terafin, was that she could contain it.

  “You were raised in the hundred?” he asked, as he walked, her hand on his arm.

  She nodded. He doubted that she’d noted the effort it took to ignore the absolute grandeur of her personal “rooms.” But he wondered, as he followed her lead, his arm once again anchored by her hand, why she had chosen to bring him here. She could not entertain here often; had she, the whole of Averalaan Aramarelas would be buzzing with hushed gossip. Hectore did not often condescend to gossip, but he was human; he listened when gossip was offered.

  He glanced at Andrei, and frowned. Andrei was the perfect servant. Araven’s fortune not only allowed for the hire of such perfection, it demanded it. Tonight, for the first time in living memory, Andrei did not exude the cultured aura of invisibility as he walked to Hectore’s left. The whole of Andrei’s attention was focused, not on Hectore, but on the room itself, as if at any time he expected attack or ambush.

  Andrei was fully capable of dealing with assassins. He was capable of dealing with the unfortunate bandits that cropped up along more isolated roads in a dry season, when the threat of starvation made the lure of banditry appealing. He handled both as if he were pressing shirts. Tonight, he expected a different class of threat. It was almost embarrassing.

  “Andrei,” Hectore said, the tone of the single word a command.

  Andrei glanced at his master.

  “My apologies, Terafin,” Hectore said. “We are unaccustomed to grandeur of this nature. It is breathtaking.”

  “And intimidating?”

  “And that.” He chuckled. “You do not entertain here often.”

  “No.”

  “Why did you choose to honor Araven in such a fashion?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “We are both merchants, Terafin.”

  She did laugh, then. It was a rueful laugh, but warm with genuine amusement. In answer, she reached for a slender chain she wore around her neck; she pulled it up, out of the folds of her very correct dress. In the light of bright, violet day he could see the ring that weighted the chain down. It was the signet of Handernesse.

  “Did you know her, when she was not ATerafin?”

  Hectore considered dissembling. He chose against it. “Yes, Terafin. I first met her as a babe in arms. She had a considerable voice, at that age, to her father’s consternation.”

  The Terafin’s smile deepened. “I do not think I ever heard her raise voice—not in that way.”

  “No. By the time she was four years of age, she had mastered that much control.”

  They came, as they spoke, to a gate so simple it would not be considered appropriate for even the Araven sheds. It was rough, and it appeared to be freestanding. Yet it did not look entirely out of place, for all that. “Was she an indulged child?” She rested her right hand upon the top of the gate.

  “She was shamelessly indulged. Her grandfather adored her. It was entirely because of her grandfather that she was allowed to learn from the swordmaster hired for Ararath’s education. Her mother did not approve.”

  She pushed the gate open, and took a step through it; Hectore lowered his arm, as the gate was not wide enough to allow two to enter with any grace. He watched as she vanished from sight in the blink of an eye. He glanced at Andrei.

  Andrei offered a controlled nod in response, no more. He was extremely wary, as was Hectore, but he did not expect treachery. And would treachery be necessary, Hectore wondered, as he lifted his face to the open skies, wondering what flew at their heights.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE ROOM into which Hectore stepped was not large. Nor was it—as one might expect from the gate—an undistinguished mudroom. The floors were of a much darker wood, the planks narrower; they gleamed where they could be seen beneath the deep blue of the rug. There were two standing hutches against the far wall, and a long, wide sideboard; there was a small chandelier that, lit, echoed some of the glory of the chandelier that ruled the manse’s foyer. It hung suspended above a rectangular table that was a shade lighter than the floor.

  It was a small table; it might, in a pinch, seat eight—if they were slender. Tonight, it was meant to seat two. The Terafin’s domicis was waiting by the sideboard; Andrei chose to occupy the wall nearest the exit—which was, on this side, a door, adorned at its height by a simple, double-edged sword.

  “Please,” The Terafin said, “Join me.”

  “This is informal,” he replied. “I feel honored.”

  “And suspicious?”

  He chuckled. “I prefer the word cautious, Terafin.” He sat. The domicis offered both water and wine. Hectore chose the wine. The Terafin joined him, although she did not drink.

  “Perhaps this is unwise,” she said. “You said, when you appeared in the office of my right-kin, that you had matters of trade you wished to discuss. I am not adverse to being part of such a discussion, but such a discussion would be best undertaken in the Merchant Authority.”

  “You’ve been speaking with Jarven.”

  “I have not,” she said, with a grimace, “but it isn’t necessary; I know what he would say. You must, as well.”

  He inclined his head. “He would not, of course, approve of this meeting; he would strongly disapprove of any discussions of substance to which he was not a party.” She did not bridle; she did not immediately claim that his approval or disapproval was beneath concern.

  “You said that you had not come to speak of your godson.”

  “Not upon my arrival, no.”

  “You cannot have thought me so inexperienced that you could, without consequence, go above Jarven’s head to discuss matters of trade.”

  He raised a gray brow. To be fair, the thought had not crossed his mind. He waited, interested in spite of himself.

  “What, then, brought you to Terafin directly?”

  Ah. “Tonight, Terafin, my godson.”

  “And yesterday?”

  He let the smile fall away from his expression; he could not be certain what was left on his face. “The sleepers,” he said abruptly.

  This was not, clearly, the answer she had expected. “Your pardon, Patris Araven—”

  “Hectore.”

  “Hectore, then. Did you say the sleepers?” Her face had lost color.

  “Those who have been felled,” he said, clarifying the word, “by the sleeping sickness.”

  She relaxed, exhaling sharply. She was not a woman to whom the careful neutrality of a born patrician came naturally, if at all. He wondered what she feared. “Someone you know sleeps?”

  “Someone I knew,” he replied. “My granddaughter. She did not survive.”

  She flinched. “My condolences,” she said softly. “What brought you to Terafin?”

  “I spent as much time by my granddaughter’s side as I could. Given Levec, that was precious little. He is the most territorial, obdurate man it has been my displeasure to deal with.”

  Bread arrived, and with it, narrow slices of fish, laid against leaves and decorated by a drizzle of some sauce Hectore could not name without tasting it. He was not, at the moment, greatly interested in eating.

  “I chose to entrust the care of my granddaughter to the Houses of Healing. It was only in Levec’s care that any of the sleepers awakened at all.”

  She stiffened, but ate; Hectore joined her, aware that he did injustice to the Terafin kitchens tonight.

  “I was allowed—barely—to sit; to give my granddaughter water and broth. I spent more time in the Houses of Healing than one not healer-born, and I noticed something strange, Terafin.”

  “Adam.” She surprised him.

  “Adam, indeed. He seemed an unschooled boy, to my eye; imagine my surprise when he informed me that he was resident within the Terafin manse up
on the Isle. You will not dissemble.”

  “Say rather that I will not insult your intelligence. Adam is kin to me. I do not value him as a healer, but as a younger brother.” She offered a warning.

  “Your Adam could wake the sleepers. They did not wake when he was not upon the premises. I did not,” he added, “question Levec about him; I do not think Levec would have allowed me anywhere near his domain had the boy’s name left my lips. And I understand Levec’s caution. To Levec, all healers are in dire need of protection against the demands and the predations of the powerful and the moneyed.”

  “He is not wrong.”

  “No, sadly, he is not. I mean no harm to your boy; I have discussed him with no others.”

  She glanced pointedly at Andrei. Hectore raised a brow in genuine surprise. “Andrei is my servant, and in all ways that matter, he is domicis, and bound to me for life.”

  “He is not domicis.”

  “No. And I will not speak of him as if he were a third party in whom I had only a passing interest.”

  She lifted a wineglass; Hectore did likewise, wine being more to his liking at the moment than the food. “You came to speak to me of Adam?”

  “No. I came to speak to you of the sleepers, and in particular, of their deaths.”

  She set the glass down. Burgundy light played across the fingers of her unsteady hand. “When did she die?”

  “On the sixteenth day of Henden.” Hectore could be charming. He could be avuncular. But he could, on occasion, be far, far grimmer than passing acquaintance implied.

  She exhaled. “I was not responsible for your granddaughter’s death.” She spoke with certainty. Too much certainty. Andrei stepped away from the wall, approaching the table with the quiet deference and grace of the highest class of servant.

  So, too, did the domicis.

  “What, then, was responsible for it?” he asked.