Lucille had taken one look at her face, narrowed her eyes, lowered her voice, and sent her into the relative safety of her own small office with a pile of papers, most of which were not urgent, and all of which Finch could deal with in her sleep. The woman who was this particular office’s Barston had not said a word.
But she wouldn’t. Three of the four new employees installed upon the death of The Terafin had yet to resign their posts. Lucille didn’t trust them, and not for the usual reasons—questionable competence, which could in most cases be forgiven, although never silently. She was certain to whom two of them reported, but had not chosen to share—or burden—Finch with that information.
Finch was certain who all three reported to, but likewise felt no need to share.
She was grateful, however, for Lucille, because curiosity about The Terafin’s late night excursion extended well beyond the irritable magi, and were it not for Lucille, it would have been difficult to avoid. If Lucille, however, had an iron grip over the environs of the office itself, she did not pick and choose its visitors.
Finch, behind an intimidating amount of work, albeit otherwise uncomplicated, looked up at the knock on her door. It was a heavy knock; definitely Lucille’s. She rose, setting quill aside but pausing to cap the inkwell, and approached the door as it opened; Lucille’s knocks were never about permission to enter; they merely served as early warnings.
“What is it?” Finch asked, seeing Lucille’s expression. “What’s happened?”
“Someone has requested an appointment be made to speak with you.”
“Patris Larkasir?”
“No.” Whoever it was, Lucille did not approve. Finch was intrigued. Lucille was not in the habit of informing Finch of nuisance requests; she denied them herself. If she disapproved, Finch rarely heard about it until after the fact—usually from a far too amused Jarven.
This meant, of course, that immediate and offhand dismissal was not considered an option. “Who?” she asked; she was not careless enough to peer around the wall of Lucille to sneak a glimpse of the offender.
“Patris Araven.”
* * *
The office was not exactly in an uproar when Finch left the privacy—and safety—of her small room. It was not a room into which a man of Hectore of Araven’s stature in the Merchant Authority would ever be invited; it had room for Finch and one visitor, and Hectore was never without a servant. The other occupants of the vast space in which The Terafin’s concerns were administered were silent. Silent and watchful.
That type of idle voyeurism was never encouraged by Lucille, but she apparently disliked Patris Araven enough that she didn’t lay into the idlers in his presence.
Finch knew of Hectore of Araven. It was impossible to work anywhere in the Merchant Authority and remain unaware of who he was. She had seen him a handful of times at a distance, and she had, on two occasions, served him tea while he and Jarven conversed—if verbal fencing with little obvious content could be considered conversation. He had been a man very much at ease in Jarven’s office, and Jarven had treated him like an equal. Like a ferocious, cunning equal. She knew that Araven and Terafin were negotiating the fees for a particular passage into the mines in the Menorans, but those negotiations were firmly in Jarven’s domain, not hers.
Patris Araven was seated, not standing; his servant stood unobtrusively against the wall. Seated, he did not seem terrifying or intimidating; he was a man of middling years, and his hair was that shade of gray that looked silver. He sported a beard, and he wore a cut of clothing that deemphasized his size; he was not a small man.
But he was not a man who immediately appeared to be autocratic or arrogant; nor did he gaze about the office in well-bred disdain. His dark eyes were bright and lively as they came to rest upon Finch’s face. He rose at once.
It was hard to offer his hand while Lucille was standing between them; his slightly wry smile acknowledged this.
“Finch ATerafin?”
She smiled and inclined her head. “Patris Araven.”
“I am indeed that if you have annoyed me. I prefer Hectore, in other circumstances.” He glanced at Lucille’s expression—which Finch couldn’t easily see—and the lines that bracketed his eyes and the corners of his lips deepened. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything urgent.”
“All of the work we do here is considered urgent,” Finch replied, a hint of amusement lurking