far more than you know.”
Jewel turned to Teller. “Can you reschedule your meeting?”
He winced. “Not easily, no. Among other things, Finch will be upset.”
“Finch? How important is this merchant?”
“He is Hectore of Araven.”
Jewel knew the name; it was hard to be responsible for any of the merchant operations within the House and remain entirely in ignorance. Teller was right: Finch would not be pleased. She would understand, because she always did—but ruffling the feathers of Hectore of Araven was unlikely to be considered wise within the Merchant Authority. “Fine. Hectore of Araven first. Rymark second.”
* * *
Hectore arrived on time. It was not against his personal beliefs to do so, but time was one of the subtle ways in which favor—or disfavor—might be shown. Too late, and someone of The Terafin’s import might consider his timing a slight; too early, and he would, of course, appear far too eager. Either of these choices set a tone, and as Hectore had not had time to speak with and assess the young woman who had taken the Terafin mantle, he had not yet reached a decision about the tone he wished to set; he therefore chose to set none.
His brief meeting with Jarven had gone about as well as either of the two men expected; Hectore had spent far longer in his carriage waiting for the correct moment to disembark to achieve this perfect timeliness. Andrei was, of course, waiting beyond the open carriage door, his impeccable posture nevertheless suggesting the barest hint of impatience. Hectore occasionally enjoyed tweaking the inimitable Andrei, but knew, from long years of practice, his limits. He dismounted, accepting Andrei’s offered hand. He frowned.
“Andrei.”
“Patris.”
The tone of the word caused Hectore to slow; he looked at the justifiably pretentious front drive of a manse that was arguably home to the most powerful woman in the Empire, excepting only the Queens and the Exalted. Andrei was . . . tense. Concerned. Given Andrei and the circumstances—The Terafin was in no way an enemy to House Araven—that concern was unexpected. House Terafin was only barely a rival, in the few concerns in which their merchant operations overlapped. They had not been involved in open trade hostilities for two decades, perhaps a touch more, and even then, the depth of the hostilities had never extended to overt physical harm.
“You put great faith in the Order of Knowledge,” Hectore told his servant.
“I put an appropriate level of faith in their prognostications,” was Andrei’s suitably subdued response. He was too alert for verbal fencing.
“Andrei, please.”
This evoked a raised brow. “Very well, Patris Araven. The Astari are here.”
“Wonderful. If they are here to speak with The Terafin, they can wait.”
“I do not see Duvari,” Andrei replied. “If they are here at all, it is to observe. But they are here, Hectore.”
“Very well. I will be on my best behavior. Will that suffice?”
“Yes. The magi have been here as well.”
“Andrei, you are making me regret breakfast. Come, or we will be late.”
Andrei tactfully said nothing further, but he had a way of saying nothing that was actually quite loud. Hectore had gone to some difficulty to arrange this meeting. To his surprise, Jarven had proved as slippery and noncommittal as he would at any negotiation of grave import to the House. To his consternation, he was not at all certain that Jarven would have intervened had it not been for the young woman commonly considered his most important aide in the Merchant Authority.
She was, however, everything that Jarven was not; direct, but politic, deferential within the easy limits of polite power, and gracious enough to offer him tea. The tea had been greatly appreciated—but not, apparently, by Jarven, a man renowned for his love of teas.
“Finch ATerafin,” Andrei had informed him. “She is a junior member of the House Council, which is, of course, significant. Of more interest, however, is her adoption into the House.”
“She is one of Jewel ATerafin’s people.”
“She is. She arrived at the manse at the side of Jewel ATerafin. As, rumor suggests, did the current right-kin, Teller ATerafin.”
“Teller? An unusual name.”
“It is. Teller has no other family name.”
“You are certain this Terafin paragon is merely mortal?” He chuckled.
Andrei, sadly, did not. He was not, by nature, a merchant; he was not, by nature, a gambler. The risks he chose to take, he took because there were no other options. Hectore understood the game of risk and chance, and if pressed, would honestly admit that it was one of the few that