Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Tamelera, come stand by me,” said Father.

  “I’m with Tagaret,” Mother replied coolly.

  Father frowned.

  Tagaret held back a smile.

  “Cousin,” Fedron said to Selemei, “I’ve just been telling Garr how critical it is to maintain our First Family front just now.”

  “Mm, yes,” Lady Selemei agreed, and glanced at Mother. “Tamelera, you’ve seen how influence patterns shift when a family isn’t unified, haven’t you?”

  That was clever. ‘Influence pattern’ and ‘unify’ were terms from dareli, but now they sounded like real politics.

  Mother seemed gratified. “Well—”

  “Tamelera, this is men’s business, not Lady’s politics,” said Father.

  Mother’s smile vanished.

  “Father,” Tagaret protested. That was more than just rude; Father would never have allowed him to speak that way to a cabinet member, especially an ally.

  Lady Selemei’s hand tightened on her cane, but she gave a light laugh. “You know, Fedron has always appreciated my support—haven’t you, Fedron? Three votes add up to a lot of power—if we don’t blunt our impact or lose a cabinet seat due to family infighting.” Sweet, but deadly accurate—she obviously understood the consequences if Father removed her.

  “This is about influence, Garr,” said Fedron. “You’re here, aren’t you? And you’re Speaker now. Set the past aside. The Fifth Family has gotten daring lately, and your arrival means we can act against them.”

  “Hmph,” said Father, and spoke over his shoulder. “Serjer, get drinks for five. Looks like we’ll be here a while.”

  “Wait,” Tagaret began, but Father flashed him a look so dangerous he gulped. Mother had said. She’d said, only a few minutes! Tagaret looked to her, pleading.

  “Make that four, Serjer, please,” said Mother. “I hope you’ll all excuse me, but I’m tired after the day’s travel. I’ll leave you to your business meeting.”

  “I’ll take you to your rooms,” Tagaret said quickly.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Father growled. “You have responsibilities here. You need to prepare for—”

  “I’ve been preparing for my debut,” Tagaret said. “I’ve done everything you asked for five years.”

  “Well, then show me you’re ready. Show Fedron you’re ready.”

  “And Selemei, too, Father. There’s no better ally than family.”

  “And Selemei, too, then.” Father looked him in the eye, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Serjer, bring drinks for four.”

  * * *

  —

  What had happened to Mother?

  By all rights, she should have helped him hold his own against Father, but since their arrival she’d been giving in constantly. Tagaret found himself abandoned, unable to visit friends, forced to entertain Father’s constant stream of guests. He knew this had to be about finding a political mentor, even if Father liked to act all mysterious about it. But with each new visitor, he found himself setting to more and more grimly, for not one of them showed any interest in asking bigger questions. Mother did nothing but watch him get more and more frustrated.

  Was retreat her only strategy? Did the anger he saw in her eyes mean nothing?

  Today he’d gotten stuck in a maddening conversation with Benél’s father, who had stopped by still wearing his green Adjudicator’s robes. How many times was one required to express polite relief at the lack of new fever cases? Evidently, as many as demanded by a man of importance.

  At last Tagaret was able to flee to his rooms; he locked the door before Father could invite anyone else.

  Immediately, there was a knock.

  Not again . . . He was steeling himself to unlock the door when he realized the knock had been too restrained, and from the wrong side of the room. He turned. “Serjer?”

  The First Houseman appeared from beneath his curtain. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said. “I’ve received a private message for you.”

  Who would send him a message? To judge by the tilt of Serjer’s head, nobody innocuous. Tagaret held out his hand, but Serjer took reciting stance, with eyes upturned and one hand behind his back.

  “To Tagaret of the First Family,” he said. “I extend my invitation to you to attend an informal tea and yojosmei concert at the Club Diamond, Barell Circumference and Kyaral Radius, at 2:00 afternoon on Soremor 15th. See you there! Sincerely, Lady Selemei of the First Family.”

  “Selemei!” Tagaret exclaimed. A private overture from her was not a good sign. She had to be using him to get to Father somehow. His debut was tomorrow—too close for this to be nothing. What did she want? His gut said to ask Mother, but Mother hadn’t even seen her for five years. “Serjer,” he asked, “See me there? Selemei just expects me to show up?”

  “Young Master,” said Serjer, “you needn’t attend. The Lady has no means to compel you.”

  But she did. How brave he’d felt, breaking the Kartunnen ban, muckwalking, talking to Della . . . Lady Selemei was too sharp to keep his secret out of kindness. If he didn’t show up at this tea, she’d go straight to Father. Mercy, how deftly she’d trapped him!

  “Serjer, what can I do?” he asked. “I can’t beat Selemei on my own, but Father would kill me for having spoken to her alone in the first place, and Mother never helps. She sits back and lets Father insult her. I can tell she’s angry, but she does nothing.”

  “Young Master,” Serjer said softly, “I don’t wish to presume.”

  “Please, Serjer. I trust you.”

  Serjer gave a faint smile. “Sir,” he said, “I don’t recommend sending any reply to Lady Selemei’s message. As for your mother, this is nothing new for her. Currently, I believe she considers your future success. She endures much for your sake—we of the Household admire her selflessness in this.”

  “That’s—kind of you.” But disconcerting, too. “Serjer, you’re not saying this is my fault, are you?”

  The First Houseman’s face colored. “I don’t know.”

  Tagaret stared at him, trying to read the statement one way or the other, but his voice had been toneless and unemotional, and his eyes were inscrutable under the crescent-cross tattoo.

  Gods, he wished he could talk to Reyn.

  Instantly, the memory of their kiss flooded over him, heating his limbs and tickling deep in his stomach. At school, such thoughts were easy to avoid; school was school, and he could count on Fernar and Gowan to tempt him with talk of Della. But to see Reyn alone? Now?

  Who else could talk to him about all this?

  “Serjer,” Tagaret said, “I’m going to Reyn’s. Please don’t tell Father where I am unless you absolutely have to.”

  Serjer bowed. “Of course, sir.”

  * * *

  —

  Tagaret walked coolly up to the third floor, pretending all was like before, coming over after school. He politely greeted Reyn’s caretaker, Imbati Shara, who escorted him through the double doors into the Ninth Family’s private space.

  Reyn’s ten-year-old sister Iren peeked out from her room at the end of the hall, with her bodyguard behind her. She was always alert to visitors. Tagaret waved, and she waved back.

  But today, this place seemed too familiar—plush ocher couches, paintings of the Safe Harbor sand caverns, and all. It was too full of Reyn. They’d wrestled here, played keyzel marbles, draped themselves on the couches to do homework, sat side by side and talked about their parents until silence overcame them . . .

  “Young Master Reyn,” Imbati Shara called at the open door to Reyn’s rooms. “Tagaret of the First Family, for you.”

  Tagaret couldn’t take another step. His throat closed up.

  “Tagaret?” Reyn’s voice said from inside.

  “Yes,” he managed. “I’m here.�
�� He went in and leaned back against the door as it swung shut.

  Reyn was working at his desk; he hooked one elbow over the back of his brass chair, frowning. “Are you all right?”

  There was a reason he was here, and it wasn’t Reyn’s concerned mouth, or the way it made his heart pound. “Not really,” Tagaret said. “Trouble at home. Can we talk?”

  “Of course.” Reyn patted the corner of the desk.

  He’d sat there plenty of times. Now the idea of being so close nearly chased his thoughts right out of his head. He didn’t move.

  Reyn frowned. Deliberately, he stood up, walked across the room, tied back his bed-curtains, and sat down cross-legged on the blue covers.

  Tagaret slid into the chair facing him. It was too hard to look at him, though; instead, he glanced aside at the portrait of Reyn’s father and mother, Alixi Faril and Lady Catenad of Safe Harbor. They stood arm in arm, smiling.

  Tagaret took a deep breath. “It’s my parents again. To start with.”

  “Well, Varin’s teeth. That’s no good.”

  That sounded like the same old Reyn. Tagaret glanced over at him. Reyn was picking at a button near his knee.

  “It’s worse, now, though,” Tagaret said. “They’re living with me, so I’m in the middle of it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Father has to run everything and everybody,” he said. “And Nek defies him, so he jumps on me and Mother. My debut’s the only thing I hear about, and I can’t go anywhere anymore because I have to greet all Father’s boring guests, while he ignores Mother completely. He talks about her to her face, talks for her, talks over her—” The familiar ugly feeling grew inside him; his fists closed all on their own. “Name of Plis, sometimes I could punch him in the face! I keep thinking she’ll stand up to him, and sometimes she looks like she’s going to, but then she either caves in or leaves. I swear, he treats her so much like an Imbati, she might as well be crossmarked.”

  Reyn winced. “Gross, Tagaret, don’t say things like that.”

  “All right, not really. But I think it would take a vote of the joint cabinet to make him stop.” He sighed. “Sometimes I think you should have gotten your parents back, instead. At least you would be happy.”

  “I’d never take your mother from you,” Reyn said softly. “Why don’t you talk to her about this?”

  If only he could. Painful silences appeared to have swallowed everything they’d once talked about. “I can’t.”

  “You always could before.”

  “In letters. I couldn’t tell her what I’m telling you. Gods, I almost didn’t tell you.” What had he been thinking? That he’d cut himself off from his best friend and write letters? He shoved himself out of the chair, walked to the bed, and sat beside Reyn. “I’m an idiot, Reyn. I’m sorry—what I really want is a way to change this myself. I should just have ignored Father and come over here after school.”

  Reyn shrugged. He seemed to have lost his voice.

  “Maybe if I can convince Mother to speak with me,” Tagaret said, “we can get Father to listen.”

  Reyn nodded, the tiniest motion. “Maybe.”

  “And guess what—you remember how Lady Selemei saw me with Lady Della? Well, now Selemei’s invited me to a tea on Soremor 15th. I should talk to Mother about that, too. Reyn, you’re the best.” He leaned against Reyn’s shoulder.

  Reyn put his hand on Tagaret’s knee and squeezed.

  Tagaret caught his breath. The touch resounded inside him like a hammer-strike on the golbrum. Twins stand by him! Here he was on Reyn’s bed, and Reyn was looking up at him, close enough to kiss if he wanted . . .

  If he wanted . . .

  Reyn said, “I think you should go talk to your mother now.” He stood up, went to the bedroom door, and opened it.

  Tagaret flushed. “Thanks, Reyn.”

  Reyn smiled. “Any time you need me.”

  * * *

  —

  Tagaret walked home slowly, taking deep breaths. He had to shake off the feeling before he talked to Mother, but it was harder than he’d imagined. Thinking of Della only made things worse. He went to his rooms to be alone.

  Except the lights were on. And Mother stood in the center of his bedroom, with Eyli behind her.

  “Mother?” Tagaret stopped in place, cheeks burning. “I, uh, I’d been thinking I’d come see you . . .”

  “I know I’ve intruded, love, and I’m sorry,” Mother said. “I’ve got a surprise for you. First, a little something for your birthday tomorrow—I hope you like it.”

  Hanging from a silk ribbon on the finial of his bedpost was a new suit: long slate-green trousers with dark pearl buttons, and a fascinating jacket of mottled blue, green, and white, with short sleeves styled into slight flares at the elbow. That was a fashion the Pelismara Society had never seen—a choice that said ‘Mother’ all over.

  “That’s innovative,” Tagaret said. “Is it a Selimnar style?”

  Mother beamed. “I commissioned it from a textile artist I’d been working with. The jacket uses both tillik-silk and plant fiber. The sleeves make sense when you see the matching shirts.”

  Imbati Eyli went over and reached beneath the suit, coming out with a pair of white silk shirts. They had long cuffs that fastened up to the elbow with white pearls—just right to be shown off by the jacket.

  “Thanks, Eyli,” Tagaret said. “Mother, it’s amazing. I’ll wear it for my debut.”

  “When you wear it, I want you to feel that I’m with you,” said Mother. She came to him and stroked his shoulders. “I know the world you’re entering will place demands on you, but remember, success doesn’t have to come on your father’s terms.”

  When she said it, he could believe that he’d actually find a way through all this. Her eyes were bright now, her smile daring. Was that why she’d acted so meek? Because she’d been planning this? Father had been going on and on about making an impression on his birthday. This would certainly surprise him.

  Tagaret grinned. “You know how to inspire people, Mother. I wish you could have heard The Catacomb with me. It’s like nothing ever written by a Kartunnen’s hand.”

  Mother frowned. “I thought the Residence concert was interrupted?”

  “I heard it at a Melumalai venue,” he admitted, and before she could object, added, “Mother, it was for you. I had to hear it.”

  “Oh. I suppose . . .”

  He might as well confess everything now; that was what he’d planned. “Mother, I need to ask your advice.”

  “What about?”

  “I talked to a girl at the concert. Lady Della—she approached me first, Mother, I swear. Her bodyguard allowed it.”

  Mother caught a shocked breath. “Darling, please tell me you didn’t run afoul of the Imbati. Were you hurt?”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “The problem is, Lady Selemei saw me there, and now she’s sent me an invitation to tea. Soremor 15th, just after your birthday. If I don’t go, I think she’s going to tell Father.”

  “Surely not . . .” Mother frowned. “But no. Before, I’d have sworn Selemei would never put a young lady’s reputation in danger, but she’s playing on the men’s side these days. I’m not sure anymore.” She sighed. “Selemei used to invite me to tea.”

  “I guess you could come with me.”

  “But we don’t even know what kind of event this is.” Mother turned to Eyli and extended a hand to her, palm-up. “You’ll help us figure this out, won’t you, Eyli? Maybe you could ask her Ustin?”

  Eyli laid her hand on top of Mother’s. “I’ll help as much as I can, Mistress.”

  Tagaret stared at their touching hands. The gesture was obviously formal—but it was also intimate, because Imbati didn’t touch. “Mother, what’s this?”

  Mother blushed. “Darling, listen. You don’t kn
ow what it was like living in the Selimna Society while the need for safety kept you behind. Not a single child among all two hundred of us? It was like living without a future. I needed someone to confide in—and the acquaintances I had were too casual. Eyli was the one I could talk to. I came to see her differently, like a mother. Now that we’re home, I pray you will understand that.”

  Tagaret nodded. He looked over Mother’s shoulder at the old, faithful Imbati, trying to see her differently.

  Eyli had tears in her eyes.

  His heart seized. Something must be terribly wrong—what could make an Imbati cry?

  “Anyway,” Mother said. “Time is wasting, and we need to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Tonight, I’m taking you to see the sky.”

  That was a jolt! Tagaret gaped at her, the words of her letter bubbling up in his mind: vast, bright, deep, terrifying . . . “M-mother,” he stammered, “are you sure it’s safe?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mother leaned toward him. “I even tested it for you. On our way here, when your father and Sorn were sleeping, I went outside.”

  “What?!”

  “I couldn’t have done it in daylight. The wilderness crowds around you, and the colors are brighter than seems possible—the sky feels like it’s going to suck you right up! I’d never put you through that.”

  The thought turned his insides to jelly. “Mercy . . .”

  “But at night it’s not too different from the city. The wysps give a bit of light, and the stars are like crystals on a high cavern roof.” She squeezed his arm. “I saw Mother Elinda, shining full in the sky. The Road is made of soft grass, and everything moves, and the air has this taste—I can’t describe it. That’s why you need to see it for yourself.” Her face glowed, as if she thought nothing of walking out of the Residence and driving straight up the rampways into the roofless wilderness.

  “Mother,” Tagaret breathed. “You’re so brave.”

  “Oh, no. Brave, no.” She glanced about the windowless walls of his room, twisting a lock of red-gold hair in front of her ear. “Darling, there are so few times in our lives when we’re truly unwatched. If you let one pass you by, it might never come again.”