Oracle: The House War: Book Six (8 page)

Ludgar rolled the tube in his hands, inspected the seal with unflattering suspicion—of Jester, of course—and finally conceded to open the damn thing. Jester hadn’t lied; he had no idea what the message itself contained. He could, with a lot of work, tamper with such cases, but it wasn’t guaranteed to work smoothly. He’d considered doing it anyway, and just delivering the message in a more traditional envelope; Ludgar was unlikely to know.

He almost wished he’d taken that risk.

 • • • 

The scroll was compact; the message was not. Jester grimaced. He had his den leader’s natural distrust of magic, and the case itself was clearly one of the expensive cases obtained from the Order of Knowledge. These cases were constructed in some nefarious way; they could hold a message of any size. The parchment was not confined to the case’s shape. Why Finch had one—or possibly three, as all of the messages were in similarly sized and sealed cases—Jester didn’t know. In general, he didn’t interfere in the external business of members of the den.

He was not feeling highly charitable toward Haval as Ludgar began to read. Ivarr was studying his master’s face with the same concern and the same suspicion that Jester himself felt, but Ivarr was not a man who had learned the finer art of hiding such suspicions. Ivarr, like Ludgar, depended on the fear—or, the kinder word, caution—engendered by his physical presence.

Jester was not, and had never been, large. That had been Arann’s job. He’d never been dangerous; that had been Duster’s, a role she’d owned in its entirety until her early death. That death had taught them all something, both about danger and the strange effects that loyalty—unexpected, unpredictable loyalty—could have.

He had never intended to have Duster’s death. He did not intend to face it now. He poured three glasses, rising to offer one to Ivarr. Ivarr blinked and accepted the glass with a grimace; it was stemmed crystal, which was not Ivarr’s ideal drinking cup.

Jester set a glass down to Ludgar’s right; Ludgar reached for it without comment. Without, in Jester’s opinion, any real thought, either. He was absorbed by whatever it was Finch had written, his eyes bright, narrow, and clear.

Jester felt conflicting things as his eyes grazed Ludgar’s expression. Finch was seldom noticed, and when she was, she was treated as a slight or insignificant presence. He understood why, and understood that in part Finch chose how she was seen. So did Jester, but he couldn’t choose invisibility; the red-orange shock of his hair had always denied him that. Yes, he could dye it; Rath had made that clear.

And he had, on a few occasions. But his hair and the pale skin that came with it were the two characteristics that people remembered. They implied personality. He had lived up to the expectations people brought to the hair.

Finch had lived down to the expectations with which she was generally regarded. But the Finch that those expectations presented couldn’t write a letter to a man like Ludgar that commanded the whole of his undivided attention.

And Finch had clearly written just that letter. He felt something he might once have identified as pride, but with it, a darker thing: fear. If he had had any doubts about Haval’s bald assertion, they crumbled. Someone had tried to assassinate Finch—and it was not, as Jester had hoped, the act of a fool. It was not, as the attack on Teller had been, meant as a warning to Jay.

It was Finch. He knew it with as much certainty as he knew anything. He drank as he watched; if Ludgar was a mean drunk, Jester was not. Jester could drink bards under the table, and had on one or two occasions; it was a costly endeavor.

Somewhere between sober and mean, however, was garrulous. Jester did not make the mistake of assuming that drink made Ludgar stupid; it didn’t, more’s the pity. But it sharpened his perceptions in a particular way. His instincts had been honed on ship decks and unruly streets; they had been refined with care. It was the care that he lost by slow degree. He knew who he could threaten or bully, and knew who to avoid. He recognized the fawning and the sycophantic for exactly what it was, but also knew the men—and women—who did not play the game.

Jester did not play the game. What Ludgar had, he didn’t want. He wasn’t interested in either fear or acclaim, and if he took center stage—and he did from time to time—he surrendered it with an easy, careless grace. If he chose to express either anger or contempt, he did it with humor, the way the bards did, and with a certain resignation, all of which implied he cared little.

Ludgar cared a great deal, but considered Jester well quit of the games men who jostled for power played. He drank, rereading the letter, with particular attention paid to the final page. When he was done, he handed it to Ivarr.

“Were you aware that your little mouse has assumed position in the Merchant Authority?” He paused and took a much slower sip of the wine that was dwindling in his very fine glass.

“She’s had a position in the Merchant Authority for well over a decade,” Jester replied.

“Not the position she now occupies,” was the acid reply. “Ivarr, give me that.”

Reading was not one of Ivarr’s more notable abilities. It was not one of Jester’s, either, but Ellerson’s earliest harangues had guaranteed competence in at least Weston. Jester had picked up other languages as they seemed useful—and to be fair, they had not seemed useful until he had encountered the bards.

Ivarr frowned but complied. Ludgar then made show of reading the document again—or perhaps it wasn’t show. “What does this mean to you?” He demanded, handing the papers to Jester.

Jester immediately lifted both hands. “Honestly, Ludgar, it looks too much like work.” He didn’t need to read the documents to see what so annoyed Ludgar; the final signature was Finch’s, but the seal beside it was Jarven’s. There was no second signature to indicate that Finch served in the capacity of secretary—a position that was very like babysitter, in Jester’s opinion, if the baby in question were a lying, patrician bastard.

“Is this, or is this not, Finch ATerafin’s signature?” The papers shook with each syllable Ludgar spit out. Jester carefully refilled his glass.

“It is, as you well know, although Jarven is perfectly capable of forgery.”

This gave Ludgar brief pause. In the merchant’s opinion, Jarven was capable of far worse than forgery. It was an opinion that aligned fairly well with Jester’s own, not that he shared it often; it annoyed Finch. She never disagreed with a word Jester said; she merely questioned his need to say it.

Since he was relatively certain Jarven took no small amount of pride in his notoriety, he felt this unreasonable, but he lived with Finch, not Jarven. Haval had implied that one of the three people to whom Finch had sent these messages had a hand in the assassination attempt. While each of the three might consider Finch an impediment to their future plans of power within House Terafin—and the Merchant Authority in particular—none of the three would benefit directly from her death. Or rather, none would benefit in the obvious, legal ways.

“I would’ve bet every coin I had that the girl’s a mouse. She’s caught between Lucille and Jarven. She hasn’t had time—or reason—to develop a backbone; gods know she hasn’t developed any character.” Ludgar spit. “I should have paid more attention.”

“You’ve not been negligent,” Jester pointed out helpfully.

“Aye, I’ve sent her the odd trinket or bauble—but any idiot could see she’s the way to Lucille’s heart.”

“I’ve not heard it said Lucille has one.”

“You’ve not been listening, then. She understands debt if you’re lucky enough to do her a favor, and there is no greater favor than watching out for her lame duck.” He shook his head. “Women understand women. I should’ve paid heed to Verdian.”

Jester whistled.

“Aye, and
there’s
a woman.”

Jester didn’t disagree, but he found Verdian brittle and humorless. Then again, that could be said for most of the patrician women who sought to rule in the Empire, including the former Terafin. Lucille was a bright spot in an otherwise perfect and ultimately lifeless landscape. Jester treated her with deference and respect, but in Lucille’s case, that involved high amounts of what she called cheek. She was not particularly shy about correcting misbehavior either.

“Verdian told you to be careful of Finch?” he asked, affecting confusion to perfection.

“She told me,” Ludgar said, “that Finch has Jarven wrapped around her finger.”

Jester choked on what he was drinking, which was a criminal waste of an expensive vintage—and quite possibly a shirt. “Jarven
ATerafin?
”

Ludgar laughed. It was a sour laugh. “The same.”

“Has Verdian ever
met
Jarven?”

“Many, many times, I assure you. And before you laugh again, this,” he said, jabbing the air with Finch’s written pages, “makes fools of the both of us.”

Jester sighed and lowered a hand. “Because I respect you, I’m willing to look at missives from the Merchant Authority. I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

Ivarr snorted as Ludgar handed Jester the letter.

Jester read it. He read it quickly, with an air of mild boredom. “Does this make any sense to you?” he asked, on page two.

“Yes.” Ludgar’s glass was almost empty. Jester considered refilling it, but decided against; Ludgar was on the edge. “If you’re referring to the eastern shipping treaty, it’s not official; Jarven’s been working on it for months behind his closed doors.”

“Finch is taking control of those negotiations.”

“Aye, I’d noticed.”

Jester’s brows rose. He could have controlled his expression, but it suited the moment and he let it go. He’d discovered over the past decade that the best lies were those that only barely strayed from the truth. Lies were a game; they required planning, forethought, and an unerring ability to keep score, to remember which hand he’d showed to which player.

As he was lazy, he seldom bothered.

Ludgar lied frequently, but not with any finesse, and he did so for one of two reasons. The first, and in Jester’s opinion the least defensible, involved his sense of his own import; he had an ego that needed to be massaged from time to time. He exaggerated his successes and belittled his failures.

Fair enough; it was the reason most people lied, in the end. They wanted to appear to be something they weren’t.

The second, however, was also common. He was a man whose focus was always on the pinnacle, and he had no qualms about pushing you off the mountain if you happened to be a step or two ahead of him. For that reason, he was wary of those who were too close to his back. A smart man trusted nothing that fell out of Ludgar’s mouth, especially not his promises.

But a smart man trusted nothing that fell out of anyone’s. In Jester’s opinion, given Ludgar’s particular views, he was fairly certain that the Terafin merchant was not in any way responsible for the attempt on Finch’s life. Finch was a mouse. He might step on her, but she would never be his primary target.

Not until and unless someone made it very worth his while.

Finch
, he thought, as he finished the letter.
What in the hells are you doing?
There was no way to pass this off as the result of awkwardness or nervousness. She made it clear—politely, to be sure—that as of the moment of receipt of this missive, she was in charge of almost three-quarters of the shipping operations that Ludgar oversaw. She invited him to visit her office in the Merchant Authority in five days, but would of course understand if the date, given short notice, was not convenient.

She expected a convenient date to be arranged within two weeks.

Jester swallowed. Not even Lucille could get away with writing a letter like this. There was only one person who could.

“Finch didn’t write this,” he said, voice flat.

He looked up; he was not surprised to see that Ludgar, cheeks reddened by alcohol and anger, was watching him closely.

“You don’t think so?”

“Ludgar, I live with Finch. I know her. Finch did not write this letter.”

“Give it here,” the merchant said, and Jester complied. He read it with more care, his expression shifting as he reconsidered what had been written. “She’s claimed authority and stature commensurate with Jarven’s.”

“Yes, I noted that. Commensurate. Not superior. Jarven is still in charge of the Merchant Authority; there’s no way Finch would have penned this letter without Jarven standing over her shoulder. And drinking tea,” he added with a grimace.

“And how am I to answer the little mouse?”

“Pretend she’s Jarven, and answer it the way you would if it were Jarven’s signature at the end of the document.”

Ludgar sobered, literally. “It’s been full-on two decades since Jarven sent a missive like this one,” he finally said. “But two decades ago wasn’t the first time he’d done it. There are men who walked into his office—rumor has it—that failed to walk out. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer to deal with your mouse.” He swore. “But this is Jarven’s style—his old style.”

Jester nodded. He had mixed feelings about the proclamation. What he had said to Ludgar made perfect sense. It was, in fact, the only possible explanation in Ludgar’s mind. The problem with perfect sense in this case was that Jester couldn’t quite make himself believe it.

He was certain that Jarven had had a hand in drafting the letter. There were turns of phrase littered throughout its long and formal paragraphs that were uniquely his. But they were turns of phrase that Finch had absorbed over the years. Jester wanted out of this parlor and out of this house; he wanted to head straight to the Merchant Authority and ask Finch what in the hells she thought she was doing.

Instead, he considered the scrolls that had yet to be delivered, because he knew what she thought she was doing: she was building a base from which she could consolidate a regency that none of them truly wanted. She was doing it because she was the only member of the den who
could
.

But this—this was Jarven’s game, not Finch’s. She wasn’t Jarven, and
Kalliaris
smile, she would never become him. If she’d already survived one assassination attempt, she’d been lucky. Luck was a mug’s game. She was—with three letters—putting herself in line for a dozen such attempts, this time with a convenient target above her heart.