Oracle: The House War: Book Six (14 page)

He did not expect that now. He was uncertain what to expect; he was not certain he would catch nuance—if, given the servants’ reactions, nuance was even possible—and undercurrents if events moved too quickly. Not the first time. But the second? The third?

If Jarven noticed, he gave no sign. The magic itself was extremely expensive; stones such as these existed in the palace, and in strategic locations dictated by the
Astari
. But they were seldom crafted for the personal use of even the powerful; they could be financially ruinous.

“The pantry,” Hectore said quietly.

Jarven nodded. They glanced at each other; there was appraisal in Jarven’s glance, resignation in Hectore’s. It was Hectore who knocked. He slid into the carriage and bearing of the autocrat. To his surprise, he heard two distinct words.

“Go away.”

If Hectore considered himself a modest man, and a man with few pretensions, he clearly retained some of the ego of his younger self. He was not accustomed to being dismissed; he was
certainly
not accustomed to being dismissed by a servant, in
any
building.

He knocked again, the knock louder and stronger.

The door flew open. Had he been standing closer it might have hit him—which would have been beyond social disaster for the unfortunate master cook, although it would also have been slightly embarrassing for Araven.

The man who appeared in the doorframe, face suffused with the pink of fury, was in theory a man Hectore had seen on and off for over a decade. He wore the stained uniform the kitchen required. He was a man of middling years and middling weight, with a tuft of beard that suggested the unkempt; it was never completely shaven, but it was never long enough to interfere with his duties.

And today, it was spattered in blood.

 • • • 

For one long moment, Hectore was silent.

Blood was not unusual in a kitchen. It was not therefore unexpected when one attempted to speak with the cook in charge of kitchens whose duties had more than tripled for the evening. But this was not his first thought, when meeting the man’s eyes. It came slowly, in the awkward silence.

“Patris Araven.”

“Bertold.” Long years of habit and the differences in their stations prevailed.

“Forgive me. The kitchen is in some disarray at the moment, and we are at full capacity—”

“Beyond it.”

“—In the main hall. The guildmaster’s expectations are quite high, as he’s been at pains to make clear.” It was Bertold’s voice. But the timbre was stronger and more certain. “How may I help you? It is not often that a patris of your import chooses to grace the back halls.”

“I have come with a request,” Hectore replied smoothly. “You perhaps know Jarven ATerafin?”

Bertold’s eyes shot past Hectore’s shoulder; they rounded—and narrowed—in a way that suggested a yes. But it was the wrong affirmative.

“Or perhaps not,” he continued without pause. He leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice, although every instinct screamed against it. “Jarven’s peak was before your time. He is an august personage now, dependent on the history of many former glories. But he has been a touch unwell, and his digestion is somewhat delicate.”

“I see.”

“The food that has appeared in the hall is a touch rich for his stomach. We expect the guildmaster to give a long and extended public speech, given the nature of the current difficulties. Something more simple is in order.” He turned to Jarven. “Come, come, old friend. Bertold is one of the best cooks in the city, and easily one of the most accommodating.”

Neither of these statements were, strictly speaking, the truth, but Bertold had always been susceptible to that oldest of merchant ploys: flattery. Flattery between classes was not common, but used strategically it often produced the best results, and Hectore was a practical man. A sentimental, practical man.

Jarven stepped forward, stumbling slightly; Hectore caught him by the arm, offering him the support one offered those of advanced years. At any other time, he might have laughed; he was certain both Lucille and Andrei would find the scene unamusing. Neither would be impressed—as Hectore was—by the sudden frailty that seemed to engulf the older Terafin merchant.

“Hectore,” Jarven said, in a soft, slightly unsteady voice, “I told you this wasn’t necessary.”

Hectore grimaced.

“A man of your stature and significance,” Bertold said quietly, “is entitled to ask for some consideration from the guild’s kitchen, ATerafin. Tell me what your dietary restrictions are, and I will be certain food is prepared. I will see to it personally.” He closed the pantry door at his back and entered the hall.

Jarven’s smile was watery. “You are all so good to me,” he said. “But it is a touch embarrassing to need such kindness. I would rather the guildmaster did not hear of it.”

“He will not hear of it from me,” Bertold assured him.

“Might we speak in your office?” Jarven continued.

“The pantry is my office,” Bertold replied. “But given the day, it is not in a suitable condition for meetings of any import. I’ve given strict orders that I’m not to be interrupted, and most of the members don’t attempt to walk the back halls. There is very little danger of eavesdroppers.”

Jarven smiled again. Hectore was impressed. Had he not walked by Jarven’s side into the back halls, he would have assumed that the man whose weight he now supported had at last been brought low by age. He seemed smaller and vastly more frail than he had ever seemed when Hectore had entered his impressive office; even the smile implied weakness, resignation, and the hesitance that comes with certain loss of power; it implied the trust offered when one had no other options.

“Very well,” Jarven said. His voice was slightly quavering; his expression had gained both lines and care. He spoke softly; so softly that Hectore had to lean in to catch the words.

Bertold, significantly, did not. Hectore nodded encouragingly at Jarven; the gesture was so natural and so automatic it was not pretense. But as Bertold spoke again, the Araven merchant’s eyes were drawn not to his face, but the beard. Blood. Bertold was not the tidiest of men—one could not be, in his line of work. But Hectore could not recall blood of that color on his beard before.

“Patris Araven, if you wish, leave Jarven in my care and return to the main hall. I will see him escorted safely back to the dining hall in short order. This may take some time, and your absence will no doubt be noted.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hectore replied. “If I fail to return with Jarven, someone will accuse me of doing away with him.”

Bertold’s eyes narrowed.

“It will mostly be said in humor,” Hectore added, his uneasiness growing.

“I insist, Patris Araven.”

Instinct warred with pride. In general, Hectore allowed instinct to win; he was practical. There were always, however, exceptions. “You insist, Bertold?” He let Jarven’s hand fall away from his arm and drew himself up to his full height. Bertold was not a tall man.

“I do. I am responsible for the kitchen. I am responsible for the feeding and care of the guildhall’s guests. I appreciate the time you took to bring this to my attention—but I do not require more from you at the moment. Return to the guildhall. I will see that Jarven returns there as well.”

Hectore smiled. He slid hands into his generous pockets—a gesture considered declasse among the patriciate—and he found the third of the three stones he carried. He activated it by touch alone. “And will you see that he returns alive?”

Bertold froze. He glanced, once, at Jarven and then turned the full force of his attention on Hectore. Hectore was prepared for it; he did not therefore take a step back. But he understood why the servants were in a state of near-panic. Bertold’s eyes had darkened. It could have been a trick of the light; Hectore allowed for the possibility. He did not, however, give it credence.

“Pardon?” Bertold said, his voice softer but more distinct. It traveled the length of Hectore’s spine.

“I believe you heard me.”

“Hectore,” Jarven said, in his pathetic, quavery voice. “I believe I will be in good hands. You needn’t raise a fuss on my behalf.”

“It is not on your behalf,” Hectore replied, automatically shifting into a softer register. Damn Jarven. “But if you wish to wait in the kitchen, I will join you there shortly. Clearly Bertold has more he wishes to say to me, and I do not wish to tax you.”

“And you are now aware of the ATerafin’s dietary needs?”

“It was my suggestion that we pay you a visit,” Hectore replied. “I believe I am capable of answering any questions you may have. I will have a few of my own.”

Silence.

“Hectore—”

“A pity,” Bertold said. He straightened his shoulders, adjusting his posture and bearing. “But if we must improvise, we must; it will not change the outcome of the evening for either of you in any significant way.” He smiled. Without glancing at Jarven, his arm shot out to the right, his hand stiff and straight as it passed through the old man’s chest—and into the wall behind him.

Hectore heard the stone crack, which was shocking; it was almost as shocking as the fact that Jarven was no longer between that hand and the wall. Hectore knew—had always known—that Jarven played at age the way a cardsharp played at cards, but he himself barely had time to register Bertold’s movement.

The fact that his hand had broken through the wall, had embedded itself in the stone, made it clear that Bertold was not simply a tyrannical, temperamental master cook. Yet he had once been; Hectore was certain of it.

Bertold’s eyes widened. They widened and they darkened, becoming larger and larger in the hollows of a face that lengthened and stretched, skin and flesh cracking as his jaws opened. They were wider than the whole of his face had been a moment ago.

The sconces in the back halls were not so impeccably cleaned and presented as those in the public galleries, but they cast shadows, and the shadows beneath Bertold’s feet were darker and longer than the shadows beneath Hectore’s. What was left of the temperamental and finicky Bertold Hectore had known for years was almost invisible. Even the familiar apron had torn at the seams, and hung on his burgeoning frame like new rags. In any other circumstance it would have been ridiculous.

Now, it was nightmare made flesh. It was an old, old nightmare, birthed in a Henden that the city had only barely survived.
Demon
.

The demon—and it could be nothing else—horrified Hectore; he did not and could not move as Jarven had moved. The arm that had not neatly carved its way into solid stone shot out, claws extending; Hectore grimaced as they struck him mid-chest.

Blue light crackled at the contact point; flesh singed. It was not Hectore’s flesh. He was driven back, stumbling at the force of the blow; before he could lose his footing, something caught him, righting him.

He heard a voice that was both familiar and strange. “Run, Hectore.” He turned in the direction of the voice and saw nothing. But he also heard, of all incongruous things, a brief chuckle. He backed up as the demon’s eyes widened into sockets and darkness across half the length of its inhuman face; its fingers were smoking.

He did not take Jarven’s advice, although everything in him screamed to do so. Everything except the small corner of his brain devoted to merchant negotiations. Any advice that Jarven offered that sounded good was
always
suspect.

He had a dagger. A flyswatter would have been just as effective, and only slightly more ridiculous. Jarven had not run. And Hectore would not; not yet. Any distance he covered would negate the magical memory capture he now felt profoundly necessary.

Jarven had walked down this hall by his side with the cool confidence of a man who has a plan. Hectore did not assume that plan encompassed the protection of Hectore’s life; that was not Jarven’s style. But it must have encompassed Jarven’s survival—and the only way to accomplish that was to destroy the demon.

Rock cracked as the demon withdrew his embedded hand. He never took his gaze off the Araven patris; nor did the Araven patris look away from the demon. He had paid a rather princely sum for the device in his pocket. Clearly the money had not gone entirely to waste. He was not certain how much damage it could absorb; it was meant as a defense of last resort if one were stranded in the center of an angry soon-to-be mob.

This creature was equivalent to that, but that was not the entirety of Hectore’s concern; the shadows that now pooled at its feet—its flat, splayed, clawed feet—were. They moved as if they were smoke; they glistened as if liquid, spreading up and down the hall as he watched.

He took a step back.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, Patris Araven.” The creature spoke with Bertold’s accent, but his voice made it bestial. “None of you will be allowed to leave when the guildhall doors have closed.”

“I fail to see how you will stop me.”

The creature laughed. Its amusement reminded Hectore of the thunder that presages storm. He leaped, the shadows clinging to his limbs like shroud or veil; Hectore could see the shape of the hall through their folds, but the hall was pale and almost colorless. The demon did not attempt to pierce chest as he had done the first time; instead, his arms extended in deadly mockery of an embrace.

Hectore did not struggle; he had that much self-control. Dignity failed him briefly when the creature’s jaws opened, because they didn’t seem to stop; flesh lengthened to reveal teeth that could not fit the shape and expanse of a roughly man-shaped head.

He drew Hectore toward him; Hectore struggled, briefly, before he mastered himself and his entirely visceral fear. The jaws that had opened did not snap or close, not immediately; they opened wider, until they were longer than Hectore’s head.

But closing them on that head—which was immediately and obviously the creature’s intent—was easier said than done; blue light flashed inches from Hectore; light washed the hall, and shadows sizzled as demonic tongue burned.

The creature
screamed
in fury. Or at least that was Hectore’s assumption; this close to the interior of demonic jaws, he could see very little else. The jaws snapped shut on air, and Hectore was thrown off his feet and toward the end of the hall—away from the pantry and the demon itself.