Andrei glanced at Hectore, who sighed. “Very well. But I will remind you that I am speaking with The Terafin, and preservation of my dignity is therefore a necessity. This is Andrei. He has been with me for decades; he is only slightly less necessary to my household than my cooks.”
“You came to save Rath,” she said to Andrei.
“That was the result of my meeting with Ararath; it was not my intent. But, yes, Terafin, the enemies that he had inadvertently gained showed considerable power. You were unexpected. I believe your interference was responsible for saving his life that night; had you not arrived, I would have arrived too late. You are seer-born?”
“I am. The powers of the seer-born in story are greatly exaggerated. You came prepared for magical difficulty.”
Andrei said nothing.
The Terafin accepted this. “At that time, a merchant—Patris AMatie—was involved. He had shown a great interest in artifacts that Rath had collected. He was not without power, and not without countenance. His merchant concerns were both genuine and legitimate. We assume that funding—for assassins, for intelligence—comes from similar sources.”
“But you are not aware of who those genuine and legitimate sources are.” It was not a question. “Patris AMatie was a shrewd and somewhat ruthless businessman. He disappeared.”
“Yes. His concerns were absorbed by his patron, Lord Cordufar.”
It had been years since Hectore had heard that name. “The last time I saw my godson alive,” he said quietly, “was the night of the last Cordufar ball. I received no further word from him, and I am aware of the eventual fate of the Cordufar family and its manse. Were you aware, at the time, that Ararath had dealings with the Cordufar family?”
“No. I was aware of almost nothing, at the time. Rath did his best not to involve me in his personal business; I remained ignorant until some of that business arrived in my home in the twenty-fifth holding. He’d left one letter for me, and it brought me here.”
“You feel Ararath’s death is connected, in the end, to your assassins.”
“I feel, in the end, that everything is connected. The events in Cordufar, Rath’s death, the slow rumbling of the war in the South—which was only tenuously concluded in our favor. Meralonne feels it a staying action, not a decisive victory. The Terafin’s death. The events at The Terafin’s funeral. Even the sleeping sickness. I’ve spent over half my life involved peripherally with the plans of demons and those who’ve summoned them.
“Even the ascension to the House Seat did not decrease that involvement; I think nothing short of death would do so. My death,” she added. “The plans themselves will continue.”
“Give Andrei the specifics of the attempts against you, if you are willing to trust us that far. And tell me how you came by that ring.”
“Amarais left it for me. I believe she came by the ring honestly; it was still on Rath’s body when what was left of that body came to the Terafin manse. He arrived the same day I did.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I have the sword he was given by his grandfather. I have almost nothing else of him.
“But without Rath, I would not now be The Terafin.”
“No.” They ate in silence for several minutes. Andrei joined them mid-course.
“Andrei, what do you know of demons?”
“Not more than the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”
“And not less?”
He didn’t answer. But when dinner was brought, he said, “Hectore, you meddle in things you do not understand.”
“I don’t need to understand them; that’s why I pay you.” He concentrated on the food in front of him as he considered what he had offered The Terafin. She was quiet, stiff. He understood that the conversation had taken several turns she had not expected; the visit itself had thoroughly unsettled Hectore. He wished to spend some of his time in the library, perusing its vast shelves; he did not ask. Instead, displaying the patience which he’d learned, at some cost in his youth, to cultivate, he began to speak of his godson.
And his godson’s sister.
She fell silent, listening; her face lost its brittle neutrality. He was a capable conversationalist, and in truth, speaking about Ararath was no burden: he had loved the boy almost as a son, and he understood that her interest in Ararath was all but a child’s interest in the life of a parent—one lost to death, early. She laughed several times—an open laugh that robbed her of years and necessary