Free Oracle: The House War: Book Six by Michelle West Page A

the tools given the rich: the Merchant Authority, the Port Authority, the weight of guilds.
    If you bought into the system—if you could afford to do so—and you played by the nebulous social rules of the patriciate, the system had a percentage in keeping you relatively safe. You just needed to understand the game being played. Sometimes—most times—it was like cards. You played the hand you were dealt. But if you were adroit and you could handle misdirection with aplomb, changes could be made. They weren’t without risk, but Jester was insulated by House Terafin. He’d misplayed his hand once or twice in the early years, and he’d been burned—but Jay had protected him from the worst of it: he still had the House Name.
    He believed he would always have that, and he learned from his mistakes. He spent more time with the bards. He learned how to give offense in a way that made it difficult for the offended man—or woman—to acknowledge it; he learned the subtleties of the interaction. He learned when power was theoretical, and when it was an act of consensus, a delicate balance of unspoken agreement.
    People consented to be ruled. Rath had said that, time and again—but in Jester’s youth, no consent had been asked, and none required. He’d had no desire to end up in a brothel, and little choice; he was physically weaker, he had no protectors, and he was therefore at the mercy of those who were stronger. He’d come, with observation and time, to understand that Rath had been right: people with money consented to be both bullied and ruled.
     • • • 
    Ludgar’s single nod to his seafaring past was the attendant who answered the door. He was not, precisely, a domicis; nor was he by any stretch of imagination a patrician steward. He was first mate to Ludgar’s captain, a scarred, windburned man who was missing a tooth. He kept his mouth shut for the most part, and the tooth wasn’t prominent, but it was obvious to Jester. As obvious was the fact that he was not comfortable in the clothing these duties on the Isle demanded; nor was his Weston as smooth and polished as Jester’s had become.
    Jester liked the man better for it. Servants were never addressed directly; Jester offered a casual nod and his most winning smile. “Ivarr.”
    The man grinned back, relaxing. In repose he looked infinitely more dangerous; he slid out of the confining element of patriciate servant, which suited him poorly. What was left was a man more comfortable with daggers on a heaving deck than cutlery at a dining table.
    “Jester. It’s been a while since you’ve been sent to fetch and carry.”
    “Not nearly long enough,” Jester replied.
    “You’re here for himself?”
    “I am. And as recompense for my service as messenger boy, I’ve taken the liberty of procuring one of The Terafin’s finer vintages.” He withdrew a bottle from the folds of his cloak and showed it to Ivarr; he didn’t, however, hand it off.
    Ivarr whistled. “Taken the liberty, have you?”
    “Aye.”
    “They’ll notice that one’s gone missing, mark my words.”
    Jester shrugged. “It’s early enough in the morning I thought I’d give Ludgar incentive to get out of bed. He was out late last night.”
    Ivarr frowned. “I don’t know where you heard that, but you need a better grade of informant.”
    “I heard it from Scoville.”
    “Aye, well. Himself was
invited
to attend Patris Winhaven.”
    “So was I. His wine cellar’s good, and he usually invites men and women of note, but the man is a pompous windbag.”
    Ivarr laughed. “That’s kinder than what Ludgar says.”
    “I’m a smaller, weaker man,” Jester replied, with the same easy grin, “and I have more need to watch my words—at least the words that will travel back to Winhaven.”
    “I’ll tell himself you’re here. Head on into the far room.”
    “The parlor.”
    “That’s the one. I’ll be by with glasses.”
    “Bring three.”
    Ivarr’s frown could have