you are not interested in The Terafin for reasons of expansion or defense. Sentiment clouds judgment when it is the only motivation.”
Hectore’s smile dimmed. “Jarven is, as you saw, interested—personally interested—in The Terafin.”
“Jarven has nothing to lose.” When Hectore raised brow, Andrei continued. “There is very little within the Terafin merchant arm that he feels responsible for, now. But where Jarven plays, there is death.”
“Exaggeration, surely.”
“I have misgivings, Hectore. On the eve that I first made the acquaintance of Jewel Markess, as she must have been styled then, I thought her mage-born, and dangerously early into her power. Ararath made clear that it was not a subject for my concern—but that further interest on my part would be a grave difficulty. For him. I believe he thought of killing me—”
“Not this again, Andrei.”
Andrei frowned. “I trust you to know your business. Trust me to know my own.”
Hectore conceded, but with ruffled grace. “Ararath was many things, and I acknowledged them when forced to do so. You, however, are accusing him of gross, inconceivable stupidity.”
“I merely said he considered it. However, you evade the point.”
Hectore sighed and turned to his servant. “And that?”
“You trust me to know my business. I trust you to know yours. But this is not a gambit in a desperate trade war. This is outside of our experience. Leave it, Hectore. Talk to her, if you must, about Ararath—your instincts there are remarkably sound. But leave the rest.”
The merchant prince smiled benignly. “I will know what caused my granddaughter’s death, Andrei.”
“And if it were, inadvertently, The Terafin?”
“Then she will, in all likelihood, die.”
* * *
Jewel was silent for a long moment after Patris Araven’s departure. She had not expected to speak about Rath—in public, no less—today, and the mention of his name—by a man who claimed to be his godfather—had unbalanced her in a way that even the library’s transformation had failed to do.
She understood, from Shadow’s reaction, that it was the servant, not the merchant, who was the obvious threat—but she wanted to talk to the merchant. She wanted to hear what he had to say. Rath had never mentioned a godfather, but that was Rath.
Do not let your affection for a dead man cause a misstep.
Hectore of Araven is significant in his own right, she argued. And he was genuinely fond of Rath. It was true. She knew it the way she knew anything of import to her.
She was aware of House Araven; it would be hard to be a merchant of any standing and remain in complete ignorance of Hectore. But their concerns only peripherally clashed with Terafin’s. “Send word to Finch,” she told her right-kin, “and ask for pertinent information on Araven and its possible new concerns.”
Jewel turned to face the messengers who waited. She accepted their messages—verbal, all—in the right-kin’s office, mindful of the need for rudimentary caution. Avandar let her know that her definition of rudimentary would not pass muster unless the audience was under the age of four. He was annoyed.
She grimaced; Korisamis was reluctant to commit to the meeting time, and she had little leverage. “Tell your lord,” she said, in a carefully modulated tone of respect, “That my timing in this is not entirely of my own choosing.” She considered dragging Duvari’s name into the message, but decided against it; the Korisamis could not easily be moved by common enemy. “The matters to be discussed affect not only The Ten, but the hundred. I called Council given the severity of the difficulty, but it is not a negotiable difficulty. It is what it is.
“The meeting will therefore occur. I will, of course, understand if his own concerns prevent participation, but feel that if this is the case, a suitable member of the Korisamis Council would not be remiss.”
The messenger bowed stiffly; the stiff bow was a custom maintained within Korisamis. “And the timing?”
“I have been summoned to an audience with the Exalted,” she replied. “Therefore, no earlier accommodation can be reached. The Exalted are aware of the prior Council session, and they will not interfere.”
He bowed again and retreated.
She turned to Teller. “Rymark.”
Teller nodded.
“Here, in my office, or in my library?”
Meralonne said, “In your library, Terafin,” before Teller could respond. Jewel nodded acknowledgment, not assent, and turned to her domicis. The polite fiction of a one-sided relationship between master and servant was not, at this point, practical.
“If you are reasonably confident that there will be no trouble—or that trouble, in a public venue, would be to your advantage,