nothing to compare to this. The trees here grew shelves. The ceiling was sky, and at that, a sky under which no mortals labored. Only the floors beneath his feet had the solidity of the mundane. He did not doubt that death could be found in the stacks here. Nor did he doubt that knowledge was tucked across its vast shelves. What he doubted, as he glanced at The Terafin, was that she could contain it.
“You were raised in the hundred?” he asked, as he walked, her hand on his arm.
She nodded. He doubted that she’d noted the effort it took to ignore the absolute grandeur of her personal “rooms.” But he wondered, as he followed her lead, his arm once again anchored by her hand, why she had chosen to bring him here. She could not entertain here often; had she, the whole of Averalaan Aramarelas would be buzzing with hushed gossip. Hectore did not often condescend to gossip, but he was human; he listened when gossip was offered.
He glanced at Andrei, and frowned. Andrei was the perfect servant. Araven’s fortune not only allowed for the hire of such perfection, it demanded it. Tonight, for the first time in living memory, Andrei did not exude the cultured aura of invisibility as he walked to Hectore’s left. The whole of Andrei’s attention was focused, not on Hectore, but on the room itself, as if at any time he expected attack or ambush.
Andrei was fully capable of dealing with assassins. He was capable of dealing with the unfortunate bandits that cropped up along more isolated roads in a dry season, when the threat of starvation made the lure of banditry appealing. He handled both as if he were pressing shirts. Tonight, he expected a different class of threat. It was almost embarrassing.
“Andrei,” Hectore said, the tone of the single word a command.
Andrei glanced at his master.
“My apologies, Terafin,” Hectore said. “We are unaccustomed to grandeur of this nature. It is breathtaking.”
“And intimidating?”
“And that.” He chuckled. “You do not entertain here often.”
“No.”
“Why did you choose to honor Araven in such a fashion?”
“Truthfully?”
“We are both merchants, Terafin.”
She did laugh, then. It was a rueful laugh, but warm with genuine amusement. In answer, she reached for a slender chain she wore around her neck; she pulled it up, out of the folds of her very correct dress. In the light of bright, violet day he could see the ring that weighted the chain down. It was the signet of Handernesse.
“Did you know her, when she was not ATerafin?”
Hectore considered dissembling. He chose against it. “Yes, Terafin. I first met her as a babe in arms. She had a considerable voice, at that age, to her father’s consternation.”
The Terafin’s smile deepened. “I do not think I ever heard her raise voice—not in that way.”
“No. By the time she was four years of age, she had mastered that much control.”
They came, as they spoke, to a gate so simple it would not be considered appropriate for even the Araven sheds. It was rough, and it appeared to be freestanding. Yet it did not look entirely out of place, for all that. “Was she an indulged child?” She rested her right hand upon the top of the gate.
“She was shamelessly indulged. Her grandfather adored her. It was entirely because of her grandfather that she was allowed to learn from the swordmaster hired for Ararath’s education. Her mother did not approve.”
She pushed the gate open, and took a step through it; Hectore lowered his arm, as the gate was not wide enough to allow two to enter with any grace. He watched as she vanished from sight in the blink of an eye. He glanced at Andrei.
Andrei offered a controlled nod in response, no more. He was extremely wary, as was Hectore, but he did not expect treachery. And would treachery be necessary, Hectore wondered, as he lifted his face to the open skies, wondering what flew at their heights.
Chapter Twenty
THE ROOM into which Hectore stepped was not large. Nor was it—as one might expect from the gate—an undistinguished mudroom. The floors were of a much darker wood, the planks narrower; they gleamed where they could be seen beneath the deep blue of the rug. There were two standing hutches against the far wall, and a long, wide sideboard; there was a small chandelier that, lit, echoed some of the glory of the chandelier that ruled the manse’s foyer. It hung suspended above a rectangular table that was