Haval shook his head. “She is at home, where she wished to be. She will wait for me there.”
“But—but your store is in the Common.”
“Yes, Finch.” His smile was weary; it aged his face. “Do not stiffen in that fashion. You are regent in The Terafin’s absence. I do not dissemble. I am worried. It is difficult to allow others the freedom to make their own choices; it inevitably becomes the freedom to make their own mistakes. Mistakes are tools,” he added, glancing briefly at her expression. “But they are not useful if they cannot be survived.”
“You don’t want to go home.”
“I am practical. At home, as you call it, I am Haval Arwood, an old man who has not yet allowed all of his skills to atrophy. What I can do there is not, in any way, the equal of what I might achieve here; therefore, it is here I stay.” His smile deepened. “And here, I am Councillor. But to my wife, I am Haval, always, and she is not—as you may have noticed—capable of curbing either her tongue or her temper. Every man and woman of power and note will be gathered in the Common; it is her best chance of survival.”
Teller signed again, and Finch retreated.
“I’ll go back to the house,” Teller said, when Finch did not reply.
“Don’t.”
“Everyone else is there. Ellerson is there. If the forest overtakes the manse, someone needs to take charge.”
“I’m regent. I’ll do it.”
But Teller shook his head. “I’m right-kin. I know the schedules of every active member of the council, past or present. Barston has ways of dealing with all of them, even the hostile ones.”
“I’m regent,” she said again.
“I know. But you let Haval send Jester to the Common; I’m only going to the manse. I don’t understand why you have to be here; I understand that Haval wants you.”
“Haval doesn’t care—”
“Finch, he does. But right now he’s almost like Duvari.”
“Please,” Haval said, pinching the bridge of his nose in familiar frustration.
“But you are, Haval,” Teller replied, not budging. “You are now measuring everything—every possible death, every possible survivor—and you are making decisions based only on those calculations. It is a . . . cold math. Jay would not be capable of it.”
“And you?”
Teller shook his head, his gaze growing distant. “No. I’ve proven, time and again, that I can’t do that math when the math itself is largely irrelevant. I trust you,” he continued, lifting a hand to forestall the obvious lecture. “But I do not trust you with my life. I do not trust you with theirs. I do not even trust you with the lives you hold dearest; you have set all of that aside.
“You will not kill us. You will not abandon us for your own advantage. But you would do the latter if it advantaged the greater number of people. You would leave us behind if the cost of protecting us was too dear.”
Finch understood, suddenly, and she lifted her hands again; they moved furiously, even through their tremble.
Yes, you could. Jay wouldn’t want it, Teller signed.
“She wouldn’t want this of you, either.”
“It doesn’t matter. Someone has to go. If it makes you feel better, I’ll wake Haerrad and leave him in charge.”
Finch blanched. Teller’s smile was wry, but genuine.
“I’d rather see the Master of the Household Staff in charge.”
In a much more serious voice—and having had far more contact with the woman than Finch had—Teller said, “She will be. But she’ll be in charge of the rest of the staff.” He bowed to Haval and Finch, and when he turned to leave, Finch struggled with the visceral desire to grab him by the arm and detain him.
But he was right. She knew it; Haval knew it.
“His loss will hurt Jay more than anyone’s,” she said, when Teller was too far away to hear the words.
“The loss of any of her den will cut her—and I fear that she will face that before the end. But you are regent, Finch. None of your den but you could fill that position.”
“Teller—”
“Teller could not hold it. By strict legality he could become regent; by custom, that role should already be his. You did not allow it, and your reasons for taking the regency upon your own shoulders are sound. Let him go; let him do what he must do. He is not a fool.”
* * *
• • •
The first person Teller saw, upon his return to the manse, was Ellerson. The domicis was waiting with both tea and clothing. The tea was a boon; the clothing was unexpected. Looking at it, Teller raised his gaze from teacup to older man.
“You know.”
Ellerson said nothing.
“Ellerson—”
“I am domicis, while I live. The future is always uncertain; it is the domicis who make calculated guesses and contingency plans. Barston is waiting for you in the right-kin’s office.” There was a subtle emphasis on the last two words.
Teller did not see the need for a change of clothing, but trusted Ellerson. He changed. He changed into a jacket that was decidedly conservative; it was more colorful than his usual attire, but the colors were mostly variants of the blue that denoted the House. Ellerson also brought out the House Council ring, and studiously ignored Teller’s grimace of distaste. It was overly large, overly ornate; it got in the way of simple things, like writing. But he understood this, as well, and donned it. He might be required to write tonight, but writing would not be his primary activity.
“Jester has gone to the Common with Meralonne and Andrei.” Teller glanced up to see the domicis’ expression; it was wooden, stiff. “Finch remains in the forest with Haval. Is Arann with the Chosen?”
“With the captains, yes. Daine is in the healerie. Ariel is here.”
“Can we take her to the forest?”
“I can make that attempt,” Ellerson replied. Nothing in his voice implied that he felt this would be successful. “Snow was with her until perhaps a quarter of an hour ago.”
Teller did not have the time. He had delayed too long in the forest, beneath the comforting blaze of the tree of fire. “Make the attempt,” Teller said, voice gentle, apprehension clear in the lines of his face. “She’s already survived an attack that left her an orphan.” He thought she’d be safest in the castle that now stood where The Terafin’s personal chambers had stood, but it was a longer, wetter walk, and Finch at least could speak Torra.
Ellerson nodded. “The Chosen are waiting.”
* * *
• • •
Barston was in an office that was brightly lit; in the harsher glow of too many magelights, his eyes looked almost blackened. He did snap to attention when Teller entered the right-kin’s office. Teller nodded crisply and indicated, with a motion of hand, that Barston was to accompany him to his internal office.
Once the door had closed, and the Chosen had taken up positions in the room, Teller sat on the desk. Barston was willing to accept this—barely—because there were no outsiders in the room, Barston’s version of outsider being anyone except Teller and Barston himself.
“I will need to speak with the House Council.”
“In aggregate?”
Teller did not wince, but he had worked in Barston’s presence for half his life; Barston knew. “If possible, separately.” “If possible” was a red flag for Barston, who merely nodded stiffly. “Jarven ATerafin, however, is not currently available. And no, that is not a challenge. The regent has deployed him elsewhere.”
Barston waited, and Teller surrendered. “I also need to speak with the Master of the Household Staff.”
* * *
• • •
It was not the usual hour for meetings of any kind; it was far too late, and meetings of import were arranged in advance between Barston and the aides to the Council members. Only in emergencies
were such formalities dispensed with. And only dire emergencies could bring The Master of the Household Staff to Teller’s office. Or rather, he thought, only things that that woman herself decided were emergencies. Teller was always polite and respectful in her presence, but she appeared to loathe his secretary, and the antagonism was mutual.
He had no doubt, however, that she would come.
She seemed to be possessed of no besetting sins. Jester admired her—at a safe distance—and there had been a kind of armistice between the den and the Household Staff since Carver’s disappearance. This was hopeful; it implied that the woman, who terrified Teller more than any other member of the house, possibly including the demonic ones, had a heart.
If she did, it was a heart of stone. Or steel.
She arrived ten minutes after he had requested a meeting with her; she was, as appropriate for her station, unescorted. Nothing she did was ever inappropriate, as far as Teller knew. On the other hand, he didn’t inquire; he considered her ferociously competent. She had a general disdain for patricians, or so it seemed; she had no desire to be one. Teller, however, thought she could have ruled Terafin with equanimity. He had never, ever suggested it.
She entered his office, her reaction implying that the Chosen were invisible, and offered Teller a stiff but socially correct bow. If her expression did not define hostility, it would have been a close second. It certainly defined suspicion.
She trusted Teller to be a loyal member of Terafin; she trusted him to put the interests of the House over his own. She did not, however, trust the den to understand the social demarcations that separated the serving staff from the rulers, and her frustration with this was well known. In their defense, the den had tried. But it was hard to treat a person who was better educated, better dressed, and better positioned as if they were somehow a social inferior.
They are not inferiors, Ellerson had said. But their responsibilities are set, defined, and accepted. When you upset that balance, you upset the social status of those in the back halls, and the person who must deal with the waves that causes is the Master of the Household Staff. The Household Staff has a hierarchy; they are not slaves, and they are not ill-treated. They have both more and less freedom than the den.
And less money.
Yes, far less than some of you. But far, far more than you had before you escaped the hundred.
The den served The Terafin. The Household Staff served this woman.
She did not demand to know why he had summoned her, but she waited with an expression that was just shy of demand—on the wrong side.
He exhaled. “The Exalted and the Kings are gathering at Moorelas’ Sanctum.”
He expected her to tell him that this was none of her business and was surprisingly uneasy when she did not. “Tonight?”
“Now.”
“And The Terafin?”
“She works, even now, to preserve both the House and the city.”
“Meaning she is absent.” This, too, was almost shocking. Teller was grateful that Barston remained on the other side of the closed door.
“Yes. The regent is in The Terafin’s forest, overseeing the gathered forces there.”
She waited.
“I understand that this is unusual. We are not certain what to expect; nor are the magi. It is possible that nothing disastrous will happen, and life will continue as it has in The Terafin’s prior absence.”
“And if it does not?”
“There is a distinct possibility that we will lose the manse. Not the House—the House is far more than a simple building—but the manse itself. It is possible that we will lose much of the Isle, and the hundred holdings as well.”
She stared at him.
Teller winced. After a brief pause he said, “When the Sleepers wake.”
Her stare continued, her gaze unblinking. She was still waiting, and Teller gathered up the remnants of a courage he was afraid was deserting him entirely.
“We have only a notion of the possible difficulties our citizens will face. Earthquakes, tidal waves, storms called to rid the streets of . . . us. It has been implied that these would be almost ancillary; the beings who call them would consider them largely irrelevant.”
“. . . Irrelevant.”
“They will, apparently, be angry, and their anger . . . is as potent as an ancient god’s. The destruction would be casual—to them. Should they desire to be certain that we all perish, should they raise weapon against any one of us, there is nothing we can do to survive.”
“Do you believe this?”
Teller really wished Finch could answer this question instead.
The Master of the Household Staff, however, took his silence as an answer. And it was. “What do you wish done?”
Teller smiled then; it was weary, careworn, but almost genuine. There was no panic in this woman, and he thought there never would be; he could almost feel the strength of her pragmatic resolve, the iron of her sense of duty. Both steadied him. “The forest at the back of the House—the forest that contains the Ellariannatte—will protect our people from natural disasters; the fires, the floods, the earthquakes will not reach or touch them there. There was some minor debate about whether they would be protected should the enemy attempt to ride them down, but in the end, the debate is irrelevant. We have a better chance in that forest than we have anywhere else in the city.
“If unnatural fires should start, move the Household Staff to the forest. If they are in the upper floors, enter The Terafin’s personal chambers, instead. The doors will open should they be required to open for that purpose.” He grimaced. “The cats may or may not be present; it will depend on the shape—and the scope—of the awakening.”
“And The Terafin?”
“If she can be here, if she can thwart either the awakening or its consequences, she will be.”
The Master of the Household Staff nodded. “I will take my leave; I will have to summon the Household Staff to arrange for safe exit should it be required.”
Teller blinked. He had been afraid of this meeting, but could not now even remember why; fear had fled in her presence.
“The Household Staff is my responsibility. I will see them to safety in an orderly fashion. I would appreciate an actual warning, if time permits, but regardless, they are my responsibility. Do you understand?” She spoke to him as if he were an ignorant child. Barston would have been enraged.
Teller, however, found it comforting. Utterly comforting; he felt weight—and fear—drop away from his shoulders as if it could no longer find purchase.
As if she could see what he felt, the Master of the Household Staff frowned. “The rest of the House is yours.”
* * *
• • •
Elonne came instantly; she arrived so quickly, she appeared to have been expecting a summons. What surprised Teller was that Marrick came with her. He had hoped to speak to them individually. They were the former Terafin’s contemporaries, not his, but Elonne could make anyone feel inexperienced and clumsy.
Anyone, apparently, except Marrick. He glanced at the Chosen by the doors and smiled at Marave. She didn’t appear to notice. Elonne frowned at Marrick but did not further acknowledge the breach of etiquette; she took one of the chairs in front of Teller’s desk. Marrick, however, chose to stand, ignoring the empty chair.
“Have you heard from The Terafin?” he asked, without preamble.
Teller shook his head.
“You’ve called us with no notice; there’s no meeting of the House Council scheduled.”
Teller nodded, gathering his words. He was not, and had never been, chatty—but he understood the value of words. He understood them perhaps better than any other member of his den. He glanced at the open ledger on his desk, and carefully turned a page; it was not a casual gesture, and he made no effort to transform it into one. “The Kings and t
he Exalted, along with the High Priests of the temples not on the Isle, have gathered at Moorelas’ Sanctum.”
Marrick glanced at Elonne.
Elonne then said, “Is that of concern to us?” It was phrased as a question; Haerrad’s response would not have been.
“Yes. It is of concern, however, to the entirety of the city, if not the Empire itself.”
They waited.
“You are aware of The Terafin’s forest.”
“We are,” Elonne said. “We are aware, as well, of the changes in The Terafin’s personal chambers. The recent changes. Are they connected?”
“We are uncertain, but—and this is personal opinion only—I believe they are. I don’t believe The Terafin made the changes deliberately. She has not returned.”
It was Marrick who said, “And she’ll return when the Sleepers wake?”
Elonne’s brows rose very slightly; Marrick was smiling. It wasn’t warm; it was a gallows smile.
Teller accepted both it and the words that he had apparently casually offered. They were often used dismissively; the statement simply meant never. It was a sentiment that Teller could hope and pray for now. “Yes. Or just before.”
“What do the Kings intend?”
“I don’t know. But I assume—the regent assumes—that they intend to delay the Sleepers waking for as long as they can.” It was true; no discussion had been had. Teller was not Jay; no one was. But he felt that certainty as he waited.
“What do you need from us?” Marrick asked.
Teller bowed his head briefly, expressing gratitude at the question, because he knew, again, that Haerrad would not have asked. Demanded, perhaps. Commanded, certainly. But asked? No.
“In the event that the Kings and the Exalted fail or are forced to retreat, The Terafin’s forest will be safe. Safer. The manse will not be. Nor will the holdings. Again, we are uncertain about the extent of the possible disaster. In theory, the wind, the air, and the fire will be restrained, as they were at the end of the first day rites for the previous Terafin.”
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