Oracle: The House War: Book Six (78 page)

Finch exhaled. “Birgide?”

The Terafin gardener nodded. She was paying attention to Andrei—but she had not, since he rose from his bow, met his gaze. To Hectore’s surprise, she did so now. Her eyes were clear and unblinking; they were also the color of rust. Hectore rose. Finch and Jarven remained seated.

Andrei smiled. It was a slight smile, a shift of lips. Hectore had seen that expression on his servant’s face a handful of times over the march of decades; he had not clearly understood what it meant on any of those occasions. He did not understand it now.

“Warden.”

Birgide nodded. “I am Warden of the Terafin grounds.”

Andrei shook his head. “You are Warden of the lands upon which the entirety of Averalaan, great and small, resides. The forest does not exist solely within the boundaries of Terafin—and you must know this. You planted the Kings’ trees in the Kings’ garden—and they grew.”

“You were aware of this, as well?”

“As well?”

“You are aware of the position of Warden.”

He nodded. “You will not be the first Warden I have encountered. Will you attempt to kill me now, or drive me from this city?”

Her surprise was visible, visceral; her response, when she spoke, was so mild it was at odds with everything else about her: tense, wary, readied. “Gardeners are seldom called upon to kill anything but harmful insects and weeds. I am not—have not been—familiar with you, but given your association with House Araven, I believe I can trust you to be neither.”

She had surprised him almost as much as his question had surprised Hectore. Nor had she finished. “Did the other Wardens?”

“I was not welcome in their domains.”

“Why?”

“You must see, in me, some of what they saw. You are mortal—but you are Warden. What you see is not what any other in this room sees. It is not what the citizens of Averalaan see when they encounter me.”

“Is it what the Patris of Araven sees?”

“You will have to ask him,” Andrei replied. Not yes, but not no.

Birgide turned to Hectore.

“I see Andrei,” Hectore told her quietly.

“Do you understand what he is?”

“He is among the most valuable members of my Household Staff.”

Birgide fell silent instantly. What she heard in Hectore’s voice was there; he had taken no trouble to hide it. He could accept threats to his financial empire; he could accept attacks meant to undermine it. He could accept with a certain equanimity the overtures of assassins and the ambitious who hoped to replace him.

No one who did not have a death wish threatened Hectore’s
family
personally. It had not historically ended well for anyone foolish enough to try.

Andrei, however, lifted a hand. “Hectore.”

“I wish to make clear,” Hectore said, his eyes on Birgide, “that you are, in all ways that matter, family to me.”

“Hectore,” Jarven added, “is, and has always been, sentimental. He is, and has always been, exceptionally intelligent. Only in matters involving sentimental attachment does he set aside his interests—but he does so with remarkable ferocity. I have tangled with the Patris Araven when neither of us held the positions we now hold—and even in that youth, I was not foolish enough to threaten, attack, or otherwise endanger his family. It was known, even then, to be an act of almost literal suicide.

“And I was fond of his wife at the time, I must admit.” He idly flipped the pages of the ledger he had placed upon his desk. Birgide watched his movements, and the turn of the pages, as if she could read what was written there, and did not care at all for the contents.

This was obvious enough, it amused Jarven. Hectore’s concern for Andrei was sufficient that he welcomed Jarven’s amusement.

Andrei, however, did not. It often amused Hectore to note just how tightly Andrei held his grudges. He would, no doubt, find it amusing when they were quit of the Merchant Authority, but it was inconvenient at the moment.

“Hectore,” Andrei said again. He was smiling. It was the smile of resignation, almost of surrender. Hectore hated it on sight, it so seldom graced Andrei’s face.

The Patris Araven turned to Birgide, but was surprised; Finch stepped between them. She reached out to touch Hectore’s arm, and it fell immediately into the accommodating position one assumed when one offered to escort a young woman. He started to drop his arm; Finch’s hand tightened, briefly, over it. “Birgide,” she said quietly, “is special. She is newly ATerafin, at my discretion.”

Jarven frowned. “That is not your right.”

“It’s Teller’s right,” she countered, in a tone of voice so soft and so reasonable only the truculent could pursue disagreement. “Jay will either confirm or deny it when she returns.”

“If she returns.”

This caused Finch’s lips to thin and her hand to involuntarily tighten; in no other way did she acknowledge Jarven. Hectore had her attention. “You’ve seen The Terafin’s cats.”

Hectore nodded.

“You saw the dress she wore on the first day of the funeral.”

“I considered it both a privilege—on my part—and a coup, on hers. I do not think, however, that she intended her clothing to be the political statement it most certainly was.” He smiled fondly at the memory.

“And you saw the trees.”

“We all saw the trees.”

“The forest in the back of the manse is forbidden to visitors. It is Birgide’s belief that, should the wrong person intrude, they might never find their way out again.”

Silence.

“But Birgide has been to the heart of the forest. There is nothing in it she has not seen. You took dinner with The Terafin in her personal quarters.”

Hectore nodded slowly. “The forest is like those rooms?”

“Yes. Birgide has been chosen by the—” she hesitated. It was rare to see hesitation of this kind from Finch. “—Spirit, I suppose; I don’t have a better word for it. She has been chosen by the spirit of that forest to stand as its guardian.”

“She is not simple guardian,” Andrei added quietly.

“No. I didn’t assume it was simple. But she serves as the go-between. She is tasked with protecting the forest, and she has been given the tools with which to achieve that in some small measure.” She hesitated again. Jarven was utterly still, his face a mask. He had shifted position in his chair, although he did not rise. “She sees what we can’t see.

“I don’t know what she sees when she looks at Andrei. I don’t know,” Finch added, turning to face the Araven servant, “what she sees. I see Andrei, as I have seen him by your side. I understand his import to you.”

Hectore thought, given the softness she forced into her voice, that she saw a great deal more than that. He was not Jarven; he had not made a practice of hiding himself; nor did he shift personality at whim and his own convenience.

“I understand, as well, that his expertise is, in some fashion, the greater when it comes to things that are best left in the hands of the talent-born or the god-born. But what we face, we will
all
face—talent-born, god-born, King or commoner. A threat to the Empire, a threat to the city itself, threatens us all. We would not—ever—attempt to deprive you of Andrei’s service. Given his forbearance to date, I’m not certain that’s even possible.

“Instead, we ask that you consider our circumstances and decide how much you wish to be involved in them. If, in the end, you consider it unwise, both of you will be free to go.”

“The Kings might have a different opinion,” Jarven said. He had slid into a quiet, steady voice; it was shorn of amusement or the petulance of his aged, infirm act.

“Not even the Kings would be unwise enough to confront Hectore of Araven directly,” Finch countered. There was steel in the reply. “Nor, in my opinion, would they choose to accuse Terafin of malfeasance. That would require the consensus of The Ten.” Her tone made clear that she thought the probability of consensus among that august group to be approaching zero.

“I have some idea,” Hectore replied, “of what the city now faces. I am not at liberty to discuss it; I have been informed that the discussion itself would be considered an act of treason.”

Jarven laughed.

Andrei pinched the bridge of his nose. Giving amusement of any kind to Jarven was not his life’s ambition. Finch offered the servant a sympathetic look, which Jarven could not fail to note.

“He is dangerous,” the Terafin gardener told the Terafin House Council member.

“Yes, of course he is. But he’s served Hectore for all of my life.”

“You cannot be certain of that.”

“I can be as certain of it as I am of anything.”

Jarven coughed.

“I am not you, Jarven,” Finch replied, as if the obvious criticism had been spoken aloud. “I need some certainty in my life. The Terafin met with Hectore. She could not, therefore, avoid meeting Andrei. She said nothing; she offered no warning; she felt no danger.

“She was in command of her forest, even then. Had Andrei been the danger that either you or Birgide perceive, I believe she would have.”

“You and The Terafin have different skills.”

“We always have. She taught us to trust even the most difficult of people—and Andrei has never been that.”

“ATerafin—” Birgide began. She shook her head. “Councillor.”

“Finch.”

“Finch. I feel this is unwise.”

Finch nodded, unruffled. “Your objections are understood.”

“No,” Birgide surprised Hectore by replying, “they are not. What you see before you is not human.”

Finch shrugged. The motion was economical, and to Hectore’s surprise, unforced. “He wouldn’t be the only occupant of the Terafin manse who is not.”

“He is
not
an occupant of the Terafin manse while I live and breathe,” Hectore interjected.

“It was a figure of speech. Is he demonic?”

Birgide’s hesitation was marked by everyone in the room.

“Birgide.”

“. . . No.”

“And what is he, then?” Jarven asked. He chose that moment to rise, shedding, as he did the patina of weakness that generally came with age. He was like, and unlike, Sigurne.

Birgide closed her eyes. Hectore struggled not to feel offense on Andrei’s behalf, but gave up; it was not a struggle worth having.

“You are like a doting parent, Hectore,” Jarven observed.

“That has never caused me harm, before.”

“It is not, generally, the parent who suffers.”

Andrei’s expression soured further. His attitude was in line with Jarven’s, and, of course, it pained him. He looked entirely like himself. Even the injuries that had troubled him seemed to have gone the way of Jarven’s age-induced weakness.

“I was once considered of the god-born,” Andrei told Birgide. “Although it is my suspicion you are aware of this.”

“I met recently with Meralonne APhaniel,” she replied. “And his mastery of things ancient was considered unsurpassed within the Order. Grudgingly. I believe he was aware of your presence in a way that the rest of the city was not.”

“And he did not speak of it.”

“Not until today, no. He considers any attempt to communicate with you both dangerous and unwise.”

Hectore cleared his throat. He was accustomed to receiving attention the moment he desired it; it was slow to come, today. “You are saying that Member APhaniel
knew
that Andrei was in the city, and did not choose to mention it to the Order—or his guildmaster—at all?”

“I am not privy to the communications between APhaniel and Sigurne Mellifas,” was Birgide’s careful reply. “My tenure at the order involved very little casual contact with the magi.” A politic answer. An answer that demanded other questions.

Finch inhaled once. The silence of her breath lasted three beats before she exhaled. “Patris Araven, I would like to invite you to dine with me, on an evening of your choice, in my quarters in the Terafin manse.” She did not mention Andrei. She did not even look at him. Hectore had been fond of Finch—one could not help feeling the deepest of sympathy for anyone trapped in an office under Jarven—but this single decisive action on her part was so graceful and so unexpected, fondness gave way to something stronger.

He had agreed to aid Jewel—The Terafin—because he thought of her as an unofficial grandchild—the daughter of Ararath, the most heartbreakingly difficult of his many godsons. Jewel had sent him to Finch. And in this office, Hectore accepted that he would offer aid to Finch should Jewel no longer require it. Finch was not Jewel. She had no discernible magic, no inborn talent. She was forced—as Hectore had been—to navigate the shoals of infested, political waters with nothing but guile, ambition, and will.

“I am offended,” Jarven told her quietly.

“Oh?”

“You have never invited
me
to dine in the West Wing.”

“I have—I believe I invited both you and Lucille to visit.”

“I note you are not inviting me now.”

“I suspect that I won’t be able to keep you away unless I wish to cause significant internal embarrassment to the Merchant Authority offices.” Her brow furrowed. “Very well—but can you
please
stop teasing Jester? It makes him uncomfortable, and I have to live with him.”

“Given your current situation in the House, you most certainly do not. Quarters would be made available for your personal use—and yours alone—if you but asked.”

“Don’t change the subject. If you will treat Jester as an intelligent, capable peer, you are welcome to join us.”

“I could treat him like the Twin Kings and it would only increase his hostility and suspicion.”

“Much of which, you must admit, you deserve.”

“You wound me, Finch.” He smiled.

“Not noticeably.” Finch smiled as well. “Patris Araven? Would dinner with Jarven suit you?”

Andrei looked like he had swallowed glass. It was immeasurably comforting. “I almost cannot imagine doing this without him,” Hectore confessed. “Although I would be greatly obliged if you managed to finagle an acceptance out of Lucille. Jarven is at his best when he is with her.”

“He is not.”

“He is—all of his mischief in her presence involves his dignity alone; it is otherwise benign.”

Finch laughed. “She is not terribly fond of you.”