Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “The right-kin has said this?”

  “Not to her.” She hesitated. “She walked from the Houses of Healing to the Terafin manse without once touching the streets of the city—and the bridges—on her way.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “She gave The Terafin her word that she would take, and hold, the House.”

  “Will she appoint a regent?”

  Finch shook her head. “No. She has no intention of leaving.”

  “You feel, intention or no, she will.”

  “It is not my belief, in the end, that is significant. My belief—or its lack—did not inspire an assassination attempt.”

  “True. You mean to hold the House in her absence.”

  “As de facto regent, yes.”

  “It would be a position that would normally fall to the right-kin.”

  Jarven cleared his throat again, and this time both Finch and Haval turned toward him. “The boy is worthy of respect,” he told them both. “But I do not believe he can manage the current Council as constituted.”

  “He is hardly a boy, Jarven.”

  “He is deliberate, straightforward, and either honest or silent. He can handle Haerrad, Rymark, and Elonne with grace because he defers, in all ways, to The Terafin and they are aware of this. Absent The Terafin, I do not believe he will have the advantage.”

  “Finch will, in your opinion.”

  “Yes. I will be there to offer support. She understands the Merchant Authority, and she understands the various financial concerns that intersect it. She knows where the other House Council members stand in terms of their finances, and she knows which are the least defensible. It is true she is the most junior member of the Council—but so is the right-kin.”

  “You feel that someone else shares your opinion of her.”

  Finch spoke. “I don’t. I think I am merely meant to carve support away from The Terafin while she learns to master the changes in her environment. I don’t think they’ve given much thought to me as a difficulty in my own right.”

  “And the rest of your den?”

  “We’ve already lost Carver. And Ellerson. The Terafin has not notably collapsed in the wake of their absence.”

  Haval met, and held, her gaze.

  “They cannot safely assassinate anyone but me. If I succumbed to poison, it would be assumed that the intended victim was Jarven. I would have assumed it; Jay will. She’ll be angry, yes. But if they assassinate the den, she’ll understand that it’s personal. I don’t think they wish to engage a woman who can—who can make the changes she’s made in her sleep, in an out-and-out fight.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not ever. I don’t think, unless she’s demonstrably dead, that there will be a war for the seat. It’s hers. It’s been hers since The Terafin’s funeral, and nothing that’s happened since has changed that. But if she—if she becomes more embroiled in the—” Finch exhaled. “Not all of her concerns are now political. If the concerns that are greater than the House absorb her time and attention, someone else will rule in all but name.”

  “And if she appoints a regent and the regent dies?”

  “If there is no obvious assassin, she will be forced to appoint another. We’ve assumed, for some time, that Haerrad and Rymark are the two Councillors most likely to kill. I would count Elonne among them; Elonne, however, will not destroy the House.”

  “They are not the only Councillors.”

  “No. They are the interior Council.”

  Haval rose. “I have heard enough.” He bowed to Jarven. “I will make your dresses, Finch. In spite of Jarven’s rather cavalier handling of the cloth required, the crafting of such dresses is not a trivial task. I will require the cooperation of the House Mage.”

  She said nothing for a long moment. “Haval, before you leave, I must ask one question.”

  “And that?”

  “Will you serve The Terafin if Hannerle is the only sleeper who fails to wake?”

  “Jarven,” he replied, “I believe I have underestimated your protégée.”

  Jarven, however, rose. “It is a question best answered, Haval.”

  “You will have an answer within the day,” the clothier replied. “For the moment, I am content to plan; if I have underestimated your student, believe that I am incapable of underestimating mine.”

  A knock interrupted the tense silence that followed his words.

  Finch rose to answer the door; Lucille failed to open them when Jarven was in an actual meeting, unless there was an emergency. Given Lucille’s expression when Finch did open said doors, she was surprised that she’d waited.

  “Patris Araven, by appointment,” she said stiffly, vacating the doorway.

  Hectore walked into the room, Andrei three steps behind him. The servant turned and closed the doors.

  * * *

  “Haval Arwood,” Hectore said. He smiled; it was not a particularly friendly expression.

  “Patris Araven.” Haval bowed. In execution it was flawless and it implied that Hectore’s position was far loftier than Haval’s. “My apologies for any delay in your schedule. I am about to take my leave.”

  Hectore lifted a hand; Andrei, who stood in front of the doors, did not move. “I did not expect to find you here, but on reflection, I am unsurprised.”

  “And disappointed, Hectore?” Jarven asked, chuckling. On occasion his ability to enjoy the discomforts of others was almost obscene.

  “No. I am perhaps lulled by your frivolity, Jarven; you are quite the expert at making the deadly serious seem amusing and quotidian. Haval is, of course, your equal in that regard, but he at least is possessed of some personal dignity. I have come with a report, and I have come to speak with Finch ATerafin on matters of some concern.”

  Haval glanced at Finch.

  “I did tell you,” she reminded him.

  “Honesty in the heart of a merchant’s domain is enough of a rarity I failed to credit your warning.” He turned to Hectore. “Why are you here, Patris Araven?”

  “I offered The Terafin my aid,” he replied. He did not smile. “She accepted. I am of the opinion that she accepted on her own behalf—but I am not entirely convinced; she sent me to Finch. Let me return the compliment, Haval. Why are you here?”

  Haval’s face was at its least expressive. “I am here on a matter of business.”

  “As a tailor?”

  “Yes. Jarven ATerafin is, as you must be aware, frequently a difficult man, but I believe our business has been concluded for the moment.” He bowed stiffly, rose, and turned toward the door.

  “Haval,” Hectore said, glancing at Finch. “I thought you well quit of games with a distinctly political edge.”

  “I have been informed, Patris Araven, that all of life is political. I can hardly have dealings with Jarven ATerafin that do not, at his whim, affect more exalted spheres than my own.”

  “He is, of course, correct,” Jarven said. “Come, Hectore, let him leave; he has business to conduct, and I wish to see it concluded quickly.”

  “Andrei?”

  The servant nodded. He stepped out of the way of the doors, and opened them to allow Haval to pass. When he closed the doors, however, he closed them from the outside; this left Finch, Hectore, and Jarven in Jarven’s office. Jarven was frowning. “Was that necessary?” he asked.

  “In all probability, no,” was Hectore’s genial reply. “At the moment, however, some caution on all fronts is required.”

  Finch offered—and poured—tea. Hectore accepted it with casual grace. “I have, as requested, the revised trade concessions Araven is seeking.” He set a stack of papers upon Jarven’s desk.

  “Do I need to review these?”

  “It is entirely up to you,” the merchant replied. “If you have fallen into the habit of trust, no.”

  White brows rose in a dismissive arch. “Very well. You will, of course, give me time.”

  “Yes. You may take the time now, if you will allow me to spe
ak with Finch.”

  “Hectore, please. If you are a busy man, I am not less so. Do not waste my time.”

  Hectore chuckled. “Very well. Finch, I will have you speak, now, in detail.”

  “The assassination attempts?”

  “Yes. You may offer details about other events you consider pertinent as well.”

  “I have only one question.”

  “And that?”

  “Does Araven deal, in even a minor way, with members of the House Council?”

  “It does, as you are well aware. I would be surprised if you could not—at this moment—tell me who they are. And I will note that Jarven does not tell you not to waste his time.”

  “That is because it is not a waste of time,” Jarven said. “If you do not choose to answer, that tells us something. If you choose to answer selectively, that also gives us information. If our knowledge matches yours exactly—and disappointingly—it will nonetheless be valuable.”

  Hectore actually laughed. He had a deep, resonant voice. “And I am now to be schooled like the most naive of young men, am I?”

  Finch said, “That was entirely for my benefit.”

  “Yes,” the merchant replied. “But if he is willing to have you here at all, ATerafin, it is because he believes you already know it.”

  “Perhaps he hopes to make you think I am vastly less experienced than I am?”

  “It would be exactly like Jarven to do so, yes. But I believe it will not be the strategy you choose.”

  “No,” was her soft reply. “I am willing to trust you with the information you’ve requested, although it is unusual to speak of such things to those who are not highly placed within my House. I will ask for the same level of trust about matters that do concern my House.”

  “That was not part of my bargain with The Terafin.”

  “No,” was her serene reply. “It was not.” She folded her hands in her lap and listened as Hectore began to speak.

  * * *

  The office doors opened, and Andrei slid into the room. He had once again assumed the role of consummate servant, and had chosen to take up a standing position against the wall farthest from Jarven’s desk. Hectore glanced at him, and then returned his gaze to Jarven and Finch.

  “Two of the attempts you are not aware of—if we assume the events in the Common during the victory parade were a fifth attempt—are irrelevant.”

  “You are certain?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “But The Terafin is. She believes that the demons who attempted to kill her weren’t summoned to the manse, but outside of it. As far as we can tell, they walked through the doors. Both appeared to be human; both appeared to be tradesmen. They wouldn’t have raised eyebrows, given their demeanor and the way they were dressed. Demons do not require financial compensation. No one believes they were for hire.”

  “No. But their presence strongly implies that the man—or woman—responsible for the merely mortal assassins that do require monetary compensation is in league with those who are capable of commanding demons.”

  Finch nodded. “We have more information on the second attempt. Four men, in the attire of House Guards—”

  “Genuine?”

  Finch nodded. “The uniforms appear to have been taken from the Terafin armories. The weapons were likewise taken from the armories. None of the items were in any way enchanted.”

  “The men were not House Guards?”

  “One of the four was. He was a guard on the active duty rolls. He had been in service to the House for over a decade.”

  “The money went to him, I take it.”

  “Yes. It was found at his home when his home was searched. He was not ATerafin. There was nothing deemed remarkable about the men who made the attempt with him.”

  “He could not have expected he would survive.”

  “That’s not clear. None of the four did.”

  “Clumsy,” Hectore said, clucking his tongue.

  Finch smiled. “The Terafin was not particularly impressed with the cats after that affair, no. The Chosen understood, although they didn’t start out holding back. The cats, however, pounced on the would-be assassins with ferocity, and in the spirit of unfortunate competition—with each other. The amount of money was not staggeringly high, and as the man was a House Guard, it may well have accrued; we could not definitively trace its source.”

  “They were not in communication with anyone?”

  Finch shook her head. “I do not think this was an attempt in which your aid would be required.”

  “No. The second attempt?”

  “That, we have more information about.” She glanced at Jarven, who inclined his head. “The woman met with a member of the House Council at the Placid Sea. It’s a relatively secure establishment, and it presents a risk for both parties; if the House Council member chose to act against the assassin in that venue, heads would roll.”

  Hectore glanced, again, at Andrei—who apparently failed to notice.

  “The assassin was recognized after the fact as the woman who was seen with the Council member in the Placid Sea.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Of course. Her hire was therefore less casual than that of the four men posing as House Guards. It was more costly on a number of fronts.”

  “Her name?”

  Finch shook her head. “There are two possible names. The first is Hanna Gower. The second is Maria Giennau.” Without pause she added, “You are familiar with both names.”

  “Andrei?”

  “Yes.” The servant turned to face Finch. “It is neither my place nor my desire to be part of this discussion.”

  “Hectore clearly feels the expertise in this case is yours.”

  “Clearly. The woman died?”

  “By the cats, yes.”

  “What was her attempted method?”

  “Daggers. They were contained in long pockets in the skirts of her outfit—pockets that are not generally present. The uniform was, in fabric and detail, a House uniform; it was not, however, taken from the House.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be. When did this occur?”

  “On the eighteenth of Veral, in the early morning when The Terafin was on her way to the breakfast hall.”

  “Poison?”

  “The daggers? Yes. It was not a destructive poison or a corrosive one. We believe the poison was applied before she entered the manse; she carried no poison on her person.”

  “Does The Terafin never leave the manse?”

  “She leaves it infrequently, and during the early days of her tenure, unpredictably, at the request of her Chosen.”

  “Now?”

  “She has removed herself from the manse to attend the Kings; she has paid a visit, on very short notice, to the Houses of Healing. You know what occurred during the aborted victory parade. She leaves the manse seldom.”

  “She is wise.”

  “She is less vulnerable than others in a similar position. The women?”

  “They are, as you surmise, the same. There are four other aliases the woman in question has assumed. Averalaan is not her home.”

  “If it’s not her home, there must be some method of reaching her.”

  Andrei inclined his head. “Sending the message itself is not inexpensive, and it is not without risk.”

  “Would there be some record of the request?”

  The servant failed to answer.

  “Andrei.”

  “I am willing to aid you in this endeavor,” Andrei replied stiffly—to his master. “But I am unwilling to continue this discussion. The woman in question is dead; the surrounding details are largely irrelevant.”

  Finch folded her hands in her lap. “If you wished to arrange a similar meeting,” she said, tucking her chin slightly, but nonetheless meeting Andrei’s steady gaze, “could you?”

  He was silent for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry, that was perhaps the wrong question. Let me ask a different one. If you wished to learn whet
her or not other such assignations had been made—in reference to this office and to Terafin—could you?”

  “It is possible. I could not guarantee that I could do so before the fact.” Before she could speak again, he added, “It is one of the responsibilities Hectore has asked me to undertake.”

  “Will you discuss the others?”

  “As they become relevant, yes. At the moment, they are not.”

  Finch nodded. “Yesterday’s poison?”

  “It was clever and subtle,” he replied. “It was also expensive.”

  “More or less expensive than the lone assassin?”

  “At a guess? Slightly less.”

  Her eyes rounded. She knew, from Teller, what the purported sum paid to the woman—who had failed—was.

  Jarven was smiling genially. “A good question, Finch. If the sum is significant, it can be traced. I do not believe the attempt will be made again, more’s the pity.”

  “I don’t consider it a pity.” Her voice was soft and pleasant; her expression matched it. She did, however, tighten her hands slightly as they rested in her lap.

  “If they were willing to try again, we might begin to pull a pattern out of the mathematical chaos; it is exactly the type of detective work we are, by experience, meant for.” He glanced at Hectore. “I believe you wish to speak with the right-kin at your earliest convenience.”

  Hectore nodded. “I have made an appointment to do just that.” He rose. “I will want lunch, of course, before that meeting. Are you mobile, Jarven, or will you now sit like a King in your empty office?”

  Jarven smiled broadly. “If you will give me a week to look over this pernicious agreement—and honestly, Hectore, could you not find a scribe who could work at a decent letter size?—I will join you. The Placid Sea?”

  “That is agreeable to me.” Hectore rose as well. He bowed to Finch. “I have a few small questions to ask about your route through the Menorans, ATerafin. Perhaps I will be forced to return in the next few days.”

  Finch rose as well. “I look forward to it.” She watched Andrei. He had once again donned the expression and demeanor of the flawless servant. She had not asked Andrei the one question that was now uppermost in her mind. Had Hectore any need to hire an assassin, or did the servant perform that duty should Patris Araven deem it necessary? She thought she knew the answer, and did not care for it.