“Don’t be taken in by his friendly face,” she said, choosing between five different varieties of jam. “And don’t be taken in by his demeanor, either. Given half a chance, he’ll rob you blind and leave you thanking him for it when he goes.”
“The same has been said—many times—of Jarven, Lucille.”
Lucille glared, but didn’t argue. She adored Jarven. She was not, however, blind to his faults—if the ability to rob someone blind and leave them grateful for the theft was a fault, in a man who oversaw the Terafin concerns in the Merchant Authority. “What does he want, anyway?”
“I honestly have no idea. Did he not say?”
“No.” And clearly, from the thin line of her lips, she’d asked. But there was only so much she could demand from Patris Araven. “Take the ivory set,” she added, as Finch began to set cups and saucers down. “Don’t use those.”
Given Lucille’s mood, Finch didn’t argue. She put away the cups normally used for tea, and selected the cups used in less friendly negotiations in which impressing the opponent in every conceivable way was considered a minor advantage. Hectore was not the type of man who would be impressed by cups, in Finch’s opinion; Lucille, however, was in a bear of a mood, and in such a case, minor compromises were to be offered wherever possible.
Lucille selected the food that would arrive with the tea, her lips thinning as she did. By the end of the preparation, the entire thing had the look and feel of a last meal—a meal offered to someone who was headed directly to his or her own execution. Finch lifted the heavy tray and Lucille preceded her into the wide and silent exterior of the office she ruled. She walked directly to Jarven’s closed doors, opened one, and stepped back to allow Finch to pass her.
* * *
“Finch,” Jarven said, smiling broadly. “Just the young lady we were hoping to see.” He was seated behind his desk—squarely behind it. When he took tea with Finch, as he often did in the afternoons, he tended to sit to one side of the bastion, nearer to where she pulled up a chair.
There were no chairs pulled up at the side of the desk; they were arrayed in front of it, in clear—if mostly empty—positions of supplication. Hectore occupied one; his servant stood at the back of the room, near the doors Lucille had opened. She remained for a long moment, her expression grim; she glared at Jarven, glared at the back of Hectore’s head, and pursed her lips at Finch as if she wanted to say more.
She probably did. When she had warnings to offer, she relied on repetition. No one, she once said, hits a nail with a hammer once. This nail, however, carried the tea set into Jarven’s office, and a modicum of dignity was required. Finch didn’t greet this with the expected relief; if Lucille was overly cautious, her instincts were seldom completely wrong.
Hectore rose as Finch approached the tea table which was seldom used; in general, Jarven allowed the tray to occupy some portion of his pristine desktop. Today, however, he would not.
“Patris Araven was telling me,” Jarven said, “that he hoped to make an appointment with you, Finch.” His expression was bright; his fingers were steepled beneath his chin. He did not look at Finch as he spoke.
Hectore, however, did. He tendered her a respectful nod—and appeared to mean it. Jarven raised a brow.
Finch offered tea to the two men; they accepted with almost regal condescension. It had been a long time since Finch had been a silent adornment in Jarven’s office. In the first few years of her tenure here, she had served almost as a maid, at Jarven’s insistence, and to Lucille’s annoyance. But she soon came to understand why Jarven wanted her here; it was here that she could observe the dealings of some of the most powerful merchants within Terafin—and outside of it as well. She couldn’t blunder through such interviews because she wasn’t meant to speak at all.
But she observed how Jarven spoke. She observed him at his sharpest; saw when he chose to accentuate his age—and implied mental frailty—and when he chose to dispense, utterly, with pretense. On occasion, that pretense could be summed up as civility.
Today he was civil. He was, she thought, enjoying himself. Hectore seemed likewise entertained; she briefly regretted her absence from this room while the men assumed their positions on either side of the desk.
She was not, however, a young girl now. Her role was not that of a servant.
To emphasize this, Hectore shook his head. “This will not do, ATerafin,” he said, choosing the title and looking at neither of the people who owned it. “Andrei, please. Pour.”
The servant detached himself from the wall and took control of the tea service; Finch allowed it because Hectore was once again addressing her. “I imagine you’ve seen many men who now occupy my position.”
“Jarven is frequently engaged in House business,” she replied.
“Indeed, he is.”
She waited, but he seemed to be in no hurry to divulge the reason for this highly unusual visit; his presence here would cause a day’s worth of heated gossip—behind Lucille’s carefully turned back—at the least. That it involved Finch in some way meant she would also be the subject of said gossip. She didn’t have the option of walking away from it.
Jarven lifted a set of documents.
Hectore snorted. “I am not here about trivialities.”
“You consider the concessions you’ve demanded trivial?”
“I consider them of as much import as you do, old friend. They are a good exercise in caution for the younger, ambitious set; they offer no new challenges or obstacles to the older generation.”
Hectore was, in Finch’s estimation, at least a decade younger than Jarven.
Jarven raised a white brow. He glanced once more at the documents before he set them aside, relegating them to a corner of the desk that would not see much use for the rest of the meeting. “I was attempting to offer you the slender hope of plausibility,” he noted.
“It is wasted on me, of course,” Hectore replied. He took the cup and saucer that Andrei offered. Jarven did likewise. Neither appeared to actually see the servant—but men frequently didn’t. Very few had paid much attention to Finch when she had served in Andrei’s capacity.
She was a little surprised when Andrei pulled a chair back so that she might sit in it, and she was neither Jarven nor Hectore; she startled and turned to meet his gaze. His expression was shuttered; it was so smooth and so neutral he reminded her, for an instant, of Haval. That itself was an arresting thought. She accepted the chair, sat in it, and likewise accepted the cup and saucer he offered.
“Much is wasted on you, Hectore. Tea of any quality, for one. I’m almost of a mind to offer you something stronger.”
Hectore laughed. “As an excuse to drink it yourself? I really must peruse those amendments, Jarven. I probably owe some poor young man in my office a bonus.”
Andrei then passed out the small, cylindrical biscuits of which Jarven was so fond. Finch took one; Jarven took three. Hectore took one but set it beside his cup with a mild frown; he was clearly not a person with an enormous sweet tooth.
Finch was. She stirred sugar into her tea, added cream—which neither of the two men touched, and dipped the end of the biscuit into the resultant hot liquid.
She was very much surprised when the cup shattered.
* * *
For a long moment, it seemed that were two streams of time in Jarven’s office: one, in which the cup shattered instantly, and tea that was rather too hot splashed into the saucer and over its gold-edged rim to land in Finch’s lap, and the other, in which all motion was suspended and a terrible silence, an utter stillness, enfolded every other occupant of the room.
Andrei was the first to move; he lifted Finch out of her chair and pulled the folds of her skirt away from her legs without actually revealing any of them. The shards of delicate, expensive cup were brushed down her lap onto the carpet beneath her feet, and—quick thinking on his part—the pitcher of water that also accompanied the tea set was upended onto the same skirts.
Jar
ven, who had lifted a biscuit, set it down without comment. His expression shuttered, the jovial air of a friendly, sharp competitor instantly doused.
Hectore’s personality did not likewise retreat into a careful, blank composition of features. “This, I presume, is the point at which you apologize for the inferiority of your dishes?” He raised a brow, and set the teacup upon Jarven’s desk.
Finch glanced up from the ruins of her skirt. Jarven’s arctic lips had curved into a smile; had she not known him for years, it would have chilled her utterly. “It is, indeed. We seldom have guests of note in this office; the dishes are antiques, and therefore seldom used. I apologize for any discomfort caused.”
Finch rose. “Let me take this away,” she began.
“Do not touch it,” Jarven said, without a glance in her direction.
“Do as he says,” Hectore added. “But tell me, Finch, in all your years as Jarven’s glorified serving girl, have you ever had occasion to apologize for the quality of Terafin’s tea service?”
She felt it safe to ignore the question.
“Andrei.” Hectore lifted his cup.
Andrei glanced at Jarven, but nodded.
“It is unfortunate,” Jarven said. “I would suggest we repair to the Placid Sea, but Finch is no longer appropriately attired.” He rose, abandoning the safety of his desk; his very posture implied it was no longer necessary. “If you will excuse me for a moment, Patris Araven?”
A glance passed between Hectore and his servant; his servant stiffened. He set the cup he had taken from his master’s hand upon the empty space on one of the shelves built into the wall.
“Of course,” Hectore replied, waving a careless hand. Finch noted the silence that had preceded his response; Jarven could not, therefore, have failed to do likewise. What he made of it, however, she couldn’t say. He left his office, closing the door at his back.
“Will we be able to leave this room before he returns?” Hectore asked.
She glanced at the closed door. Silence was her best option. It was not, however, the one she chose. “I’m not certain.” Her tone was apologetic. Her expression was not. “But I believe our suspicions are aligned.”
“Andrei?”
“Yes, we can leave. It will be marked, and there may be some difficulty. Do you wish to take that risk?”
Hectore chuckled. “Why should I? I had hoped to speak to Finch, and she is here; Jarven is not. Jarven is an old opponent; he is naturally cautious and unnaturally canny. If he suspects that I had a hand in today’s minor disturbance, he is clearly well into the dotage he oft feigns.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No. He is far too intelligent.”
Finch glanced at Andrei; his back had become a wall as he turned to face the cup he’d set down. “Patris Araven, why did you come to the Terafin offices?”
“You have obviously spent far too much time in Jarven’s company. I came, as I said, to arrange an appointment to speak with you. Did The Terafin not give you any advance warning?”
Finch stiffened. “I’m afraid it must have slipped her mind.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am going to assume, for the sake of my dignity, that the wild rumors that have escaped the Houses of Healing yesterday contained some element of truth.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. I haven’t been privy to any of those rumors.”
Hectore smiled. “You do that well.”
“Pardon?”
“Lie. It is a useful trait—one that The Terafin does not seem to possess. I was informed by the leader of your House that there have been numerous difficulties since she became The Terafin. Andrei?”
“A moment, Hectore.”
Finch considered the man seated before her with care. She considered what she knew of him—which involved a large amount of draconian paperwork—and what she had heard. At the moment, with his careful and jovial smile, he didn’t seem to be a man to whom Jewel would confide.
Yet she had. “Why did you wish to speak with The Terafin?”
“The Terafin and I have an old friend in common. I am not sure if you will be familiar with his name, but I will offer it anyway: Ararath of Handernesse.”
Finch’s eyes rounded slightly. She sat, her wet skirts falling over her lap. She didn’t keep clothing of any sort in the Merchant Authority, and could not therefore change.
“I see you knew him.”
She nodded slowly. “He was related to you?”
“He was my godson.”
“And you’ve become aware of the debt we owe him.”
“We?”
“House Terafin.” The answer was smooth and unmarred by hesitation.
“Ah, no. I did not seek The Terafin in order to speak about debt. I asked for her aid in a particular matter, and offered my aid in return. I would, as a gesture of good faith, rework the contract that is sitting so forlornly on Jarven’s desk, but I have found, with Jarven, that it is unwise to let him grow idle.”
“What aid did you feel compelled to offer?”
“What aid did she feel compelled to accept? Andrei.”
Andrei turned. “Two parts,” he said quietly. “But it is a subtle combination. I do not believe it would have killed instantly, unless the imbiber were already of weak constitution.”
“That’s all you can tell us?”
“For the moment.”
Hectore had not once so much as glanced at his servant; he watched Finch. “I did not, of course, expect any of my expertise to be of immediate relevance to you. But you are a House Council member, if a very junior one. You have been given an office of your own within the Terafin quarters in the Authority; it would not be considered a small accomplishment if one had ambitions.”
Finch’s brows rose. “You cannot possibly believe that today’s unpleasantness was aimed at me?”
“I would not,” he replied, his lips retaining the framework of a smile, “were it not for the fact that Jarven does.”
“He can’t possibly believe that. I am a minor official in the Merchant Authority.”
“A minor official who serves as a full member of the House Council, and a minor official who has a permanent residence within the Terafin manse upon the Isle. Foolish of me to consider either important.” His smile did not touch his eyes. “Andrei?”
“I am not entirely certain that my interference will be either welcome or acceptable, Hectore,” his servant replied, the mild reproach an obvious indicator of the esteem in which Patris Araven held him.
Hectore’s smile froze, and after a long, immobile moment, Andrei approached the doors Jarven had closed.
Finch held her breath as he reached for the handle and opened the door. She exhaled when the only result of the attempt was the open door. It closed again as he left.
“I confess a galling ignorance when it comes to ancient trees that grow—overnight—in the grounds of a manse upon the Isle. My ignorance when it comes to giant, winged cats is less galling. I am not talent-born. I felt no pressing need to learn the mysteries of the gods—any god—and I very much doubt any temple would have me, although they’re all prepared to take my money.
“But I have had some experience with people, ATerafin. Not all of those experiences were pleasant, nor would I expect my life in future to be devoid of unpleasantness. It is, in part, the cost of power—but only in part. I understand that you knew The Terafin when she living in the old holdings.”
Finch inclined her head.
“Then you, of course, understand that unpleasantness also proceeds from lack of power. There is no man, woman, or child—except perhaps for babes in arms—who has not experienced pain. The world scars us. Life scars us. But our ability to take scars is the cost, or perhaps the proof, that we do live.
“I claim no greater understanding of The Terafin than Jarven might; I claim a vastly smaller understanding than yours. She is new to her rank, new to the seat. She is, at this moment, at her most vulnerable. This is simple truth. It would
be—and will be—true of any ruler of The Ten, in both past and future. Gaining power and retaining it are two very different struggles—and she does not, perhaps, have a background in which old alliances and former family ties will be of use.
“What she has, ATerafin, is you. She has the current right-kin, a man who has otherwise failed to distinguish himself outside of the bounds of the House. Her oathguard—her Chosen, in Terafin nomenclature—are few, in comparison to their strength while Amarais lived.
“She has managed a few clever coups; she is being watched with not a little interest in several quarters. The bards appear content to spread her fame throughout the streets of the city, where they can find any audience willing to listen; no less a mage than Meralonne APhaniel serves House Terafin exclusively. It is rumored that he has chosen to do so for free.
“While the Kings are rumored to have strong reason to fear her—and I have seen some proof of that in my recent visits to the Royal Trade Commission—they will not interfere in Terafin business. There is every reason to believe, given no less than five assassination attempts in a paltry two months that they will not have reason for long.
“But she remains alive. Given the nature of the fifth assassin, her survival is an act of sorcery or luck—it is entirely beyond my ken. The nature of some of the other assassins, however, is not.” He glanced pointedly at the shards of cup beneath their chairs. “I assumed—and it appears it was a rash assumption—that the more visceral elements of a succession war had already been dispensed with. I assumed—and I feel this is less rash—that The Terafin’s enemies were, in large part, outside of Terafin—and outside of the patriciate that otherwise rules this city.
“But you are not your Lord. You have not—that I am aware of—evinced any surprising or bewildering talents; you are merely a normal mortal—as am I.” He frowned. “I admit that my first instinct would be to assume Jarven is the target. Jarven, however, has been famously apolitical for most of his tenure here. Even aligned, he has never been easily controlled.”
“Patris Araven—”
Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 63