The undercaste mark.
“Trasher!” Nekantor cried.
“Akrabitti filth!” shouted Benél. He leapt at her, fists swinging. She dodged, grabbed a pair of manacles off the wall, and threw it in his face. Benél roared in pain.
Nekantor screamed.
The trasher was coming at him. Gods, don’t let her touch! He leapt backward and smacked into someone, whirled, but it was only Grenth. Grenth and Yril ran after the filth-marked whore. Then Benél was here, wrapping an arm around him again. Benél held a handkerchief over his mouth.
Nekantor gasped, “Benél, that Akrabitti—she—”
“I’m a fool,” said Benél. “She’s not undercaste. She’s a Kartunnen dressed up, gnash her. Let’s see if we can get out of this for a minute.”
A few steps farther on, they found stairs leading upward. The stairs were quieter, calmer, and did not flutter. It wasn’t enough to cool the chaos, but it might lead to better. At the top of the stairs was a locked door. Nekantor put his wire into the lock, and twisted.
The room inside was rich, with a green carpet and velvet curtains held back by golden ropes. It was also empty. Benél pulled Nekantor in and closed the door.
Nekantor stood still. There was a bed here, with smooth pale satin covers. A low set of brass shelves with cut-glass bottles and small crystal glasses. A glass-topped makeup stand, with a tall mirror over it.
The mirror. Nekantor walked to it, laid his hands on it. Pleaded with it. Smooth clear glass, and it should have calmed him, but the bed loomed inside it, whispering of sex. He could see Benél moving there, pushing his hands among the glass bottles. Benél grabbed one and came nearer. Reached below Nekantor’s right elbow and set two glasses on the stand.
Nekantor looked down. Two crystal glasses, and Benél’s hand, and something else on the table beside it.
A ring. Too reflective for silver. Platinum, then, and smooth, a perfect smooth circle that pulled his mind in, spun him, soothed him.
Benél poured from the bottle. “Nek, here, this will help us both feel better.”
Nekantor looked up from the ring and back down. Cataloged the glimpse: Benél, his lower lip swollen, holding a glass of luminous clear brown liquid. He wasn’t ready. He wanted to look at Benél, but he still needed the ring.
“Benél,” he said. “Don’t drink. Wash your hands first. This is a fever house.”
“Oh, right.” Benél moved away. “I found the bathroom,” he said.
Nekantor put his hand over the ring. He closed his fingers, felt the smooth perfection of it. Brought it with him through the door to a red marble room where Benél stood, pouring water over his hands and splashing it on his face. Nekantor bent to the water also, washing his hands and the ring with them. Finally, he was able to look up again.
Benél gave him a glass. “Chatinet,” he said. “My dad drinks it. You’ll like it.” He put the glass to his lips and tipped his head back. The liquid vanished into his mouth.
Nekantor looked at the glass. Sniffed it, took a sip. His lips burned, but it was sweet. And a glass should be full or empty, so he took another drink. Tipped back his head for the last drops, and warmth hit him in the stomach. Now the glass was empty. He rolled the ring around his hand and put the empty glass down on the red marble.
“Benél, we have to get out of here,” he said, shaking his head. “This place . . .”
Benél came, put his arm around his shoulders. “It’s awful,” he said. “I didn’t know it would be so bad for you, but you’re right. It’s disgusting.”
Nekantor nodded and rolled the ring around his hand. Benél’s arm was tight around him, and Benél’s lip was hurt. Gnash that whore, for doing that to Benél. Benél’s lip was swollen and soft. He didn’t want to look at it—he couldn’t stop looking at it. The chatinet was gone, but the heat in his stomach wasn’t. Dizziness buzzed behind his ears. He lifted one finger and touched Benél’s hurt lip.
Benél hissed a breath in, slowly.
Someone banged on the door, slammed it open. Nekantor took his finger back, hid it against his stomach.
Losli.
“Arissen!” Losli panted. “Let’s go!”
Go. Oh—mercy, yes—finally to escape! Nekantor ran down the stairs, faster, faster, up the hall. No eyes for the destruction or the open rooms. Escape was all that mattered—the last move in a game that had gone all wrong. The others’ footsteps pounded behind him. He burst through the fluttering room, out the door. Lights in the narrow street—shouts. Benél slid into the skimmer’s seat and punched the controls, while Nekantor climbed straight over the seatback and in. Before he was even fully seated, the skimmer lifted, and they were away. Benél drove like he was crazy, hopping the sidwalk and weaving along the streets, then hurtling down the rampway to the fifth level.
No sirens.
He and Benél arrived first at the Conveyor’s Hall. Jiss and Drespo came in just behind, then Losli driving alone, and Tindamer and Dix jammed into a skimmer too small for the two of them. No sign of Grenth or Yril.
Nekantor took a deep breath and laughed. Benél laughed, too. They climbed out of the skimmers, and Imbati took them away.
“Home, everyone,” Benél called. “And everyone wash.”
Tindamer snorted.
“Not to worry,” said Losli. “I think I’m going to bathe for a day.”
“My jacket is ruined,” moaned Drespo. “And we lost Yril and Grenth.”
“Home,” Benél repeated.
Nekantor watched them all go. Benél’s hand came to the back of his neck, shook him gently.
“That means you, too, Nek,” Benél said. “What’s that you’re holding?”
Nekantor opened his hand. The ring gleamed in the bright light of the Conveyor’s Hall. With everything around him no longer in chaos, it was no longer perfect. There was something engraved on its inside surface. He lifted it and peered in.
To Yanun my love, Indal
“Indal,” he murmured. There was only one Indal. “Benél!”
Benél frowned. “What?”
Nekantor looked up. The truth fell into his mind like a stone, and its consequences spread further, further, further. His heart raced. “It’s wonderful news. The Eminence is going to die.”
|
CHAPTER NINE
The Mistress in Person
Aloran moved with his softest, most professional step along the public hall toward the suite of Grobal Garr and Tamelera of the First Family. This would be the last time. Tonight he’d finally meet the Lady herself, but he must fail before he allowed himself to work for her.
Selfish, the voice of condemnation whispered. Selfish as a cat.
But he’d already hurt her, just by getting involved. He should withdraw so he couldn’t hurt her more.
Grobal Garr will pick someone worse.
Kiit thought he was doing the right thing. And his entire life was at stake—weren’t those sufficient reasons?
Selfish Imbati. Love where you serve.
He wanted to grit his teeth, but chose not to. I serve the nation, too, don’t I? How can I do that if I’m miserable?
The Lady is more miserable.
Of that, there was no doubt. He stopped at the bronze door of the First Family’s suite and allowed himself a sigh. Eyli said Tamelera had strengths—but Eyli had loved her since childhood, and perhaps saw her differently. What person could live among these men and not be diminished?
Aloran rang the bell. Please, anyone but Garr’s Sorn.
The door opened on a different man tonight: a heavier man, light brown hair sifted through with gray, marked with the crescent cross of the Household. “Aloran, you are well come,” he said. That was the rocking sea-level accent of Safe Harbor, even more distinctive than Min’s. “I am Premel, Keeper here.”
Aloran bowed. “
I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Premel, sir. Thank you very much for receiving me.”
Premel soberly escorted him in. “The Mistress occupies the dining room at the moment,” he said. “You’re waiting in the Master and Mistress’ chambers until they’re pleased to enter, such time when the review will officially begin.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Strange, to walk through their richly appointed sitting room and private drawing room with a sense of distance rather than curiosity. Premel left him alone in the Master and Mistress’ chambers, and this time he found his eyes drawn to the paintings. One was a scene of Selimna: Kartunnen musicians playing on the sidewalk under golden daylights, while mosaic grain fields billowed across storefronts behind them. Another was a portrait of a huge crowd with a plaque reading: The First Family. That had to be some Kartunnen’s additive fabrication, for surely no artist would be able to capture eight hundred and four people within any reasonable period of time. Aloran scanned for the Lady’s likeness, but the faces were too small. If he looked closer, he’d risk not making it back to the center of the room when he heard them coming.
His stomach wavered. Was that how he should fail tonight?
No, it probably wouldn’t be enough.
Muffled voices filtered into the room: first Grobal Garr’s unmistakable bass rumble, and then a woman’s voice, her voice—sweet high notes of distress. A strident cry came right outside the door:
“An Imbati?! Garr, how dare you!”
The door of the chambers sprang open and slammed into the stone wall. The Lady blazed in the doorway, bare arms flung outward, her silk and jewels gleaming like the battle armor of Mai the Right. Her livid eyes paralyzed him.
“None of your tantrums, now, Tamelera,” said Grobal Garr, stepping in to one side. “This is Imbati Aloran. Excellent medical training, bodyguard’s training, and all the rest. Quite satisfactory, to my mind.”
Grobal Garr was different tonight. No longer powerful, but an old, fragile, thirsty man, drinking the anger that gave his partner twice his life, and using it to rouse a slow, salacious smile. Aloran couldn’t stand to look at him.
Lady Tamelera swept forward to fill his vision.
He held his breath. She was so close he could have traced the blue star patterns in her irises—oh, mercy, he’d looked her in the eye! But he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Clearly, the Lady was in complete control of herself, and not at all surprised. His heart shrank.
“Satisfactory,” she hissed. “You propose to give me a man, and call that satisfactory? Think I have too much companionship in my life, do you? It’s not enough that I’ve lost Lienne to the Arissen and Selemei to politics—now you have to surround me entirely with men?”
“Of course not, love,” Grobal Garr said. “He’s simply the best.”
Lady Tamelera glared at her partner, then whirled and came in again. Aloran cringed. Her heavy skirts caught and tugged against his ankles; her merciless gaze raked him head to toe. She hesitated a split second, and then raised two fingers, her jaw hardening. Heile’s mercy, she was going to pinch—Aloran clenched his teeth, his entire body quivering, waiting for pain.
He felt nothing.
The Lady’s lightning fingers plucked edges and folds of his clothing, missing him entirely. He tried to find another breath.
“Tamelera!” Grobal Garr barked, now clearly outraged.
“Imbati Aloran, the best the Academy has to offer,” she sneered. “He’s certainly a finer specimen than you, Garr. I’m surprised you want to have him around as a measuring rod for your own physical decline.”
Her partner’s face flushed red. “See here!”
“Oh, so I’ve gotten it wrong? Instead, he’s supposed to treat me for my deficiencies, is that it?”
“Dear, you’re not seventeen anymore—”
“And you’re not forty!” she snapped. “But you have other means than offspring to buy your reputation. So, Aloran, are you going to restore my fertility?”
Holy Eyn, was that why Grobal Garr had asked so many questions about his medical training? What could he say? He took a terrified breath.
“Stop!” Lady Tamelera commanded. “Don’t answer that.”
Aloran bowed his head. “Thank you, Lady.”
She leaned close, hissing in his ear. “I’ve had a friend, you understand that? Even if you replace her, you will never have her place.”
“No, Lady.”
She strode away toward the window. On the stone sill sat a pair of ceramic rabbits—the white one, he’d seen in Garr’s hand at his last review. She picked it up, gazing across the room at Garr. Her voice turned singsong-sweet. “So, darling, do you want me to ask him questions?”
“As many as you want,” Grobal Garr replied.
The Lady whirled and flung the rabbit.
Aloran flinched. The rabbit came so close to his head that it flashed white in the corner of his eye. It smashed on stone behind him.
“Forget it,” the Lady said. “I won’t pretend that you care what I think. I’ve seen him. I’m sure I already know what he’s capable of. Anything I don’t know I’m sure you’ve already checked. Why do I need anything else?”
“See now, dear? That’s better,” said Grobal Garr.
“Come now. We’ll drink a toast, to thirty-five years of me, and eighteen of us. It might help my mood.” Ignoring her partner’s proffered arm, she swooped past him out the door, and called sharply, “Premel!”
Grobal Garr stroked his chin with a sickening smile, and followed her out. The door swung shut.
Aloran stood alone, shaking.
The door opened slightly, and the First Houseman peered in. “Aloran,” he said softly. “Let’s take you out.”
Aloran crept silently behind Serjer to the front door. Heile be merciful—let nothing change the Lady’s mind and bring her back! On the threshold, he mustered enough manners to bow. “Thank you, Serjer, sir.”
“I’m so sorry,” Serjer said. “I had a feeling it might happen this way. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Aloran walked back to the dormitory and sat motionless on his bed, trying just to feel the steady routines of life progressing in near-silence around him. The reality of Lady Tamelera was shattering. The violence of her eyes—it was as if they’d burned holes right through him. Imagine what it would have been like, after a month: with so many holes, there would have been nothing left of him at all. Thank all the gods she’d never given him a chance. He cupped his face in his hands and took a deep breath. Then he let it out slowly, as if just learning the exercise for the first time. Another breath—this one easier, and easier then to fall into the pattern.
When he raised his head again, Kiit was beside him.
“Kiit—” he whispered, with difficulty. “She hated me.”
Kiit’s eyes widened, but then she shrugged. “Well, if she thinks she does, so much the better—but she can’t really hate you. She doesn’t know you.”
He shook his head.
Kiit leaned in closer. “My heart is as deep as the heavens, if you want to tell me.”
“We should be completely alone.”
She considered for a moment, then stood and led the way out.
The wysps were numerous tonight. One airborne spark floated just outside the dormitory, two between their dormitory and its neighbor, and another in the shadowy gymnasium, where Kiit drew him down by two fingers onto the soft padded floor of the bodyguard’s training area.
“Aloran, may I ask you questions?”
“No, not yet. First, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you—what she looks like.” If he could push Lady Tamelera away, maybe he could evaluate her at arm’s length rather than trapped in her gaze. “She’s exactly the same height as me.”
“A Grobal woman, five foot ten?”
He nodd
ed. “It is unusual. She has blue eyes—” Eyes, boring into him. He shook his head. “She wore her hair up. Her Eyli is very skilled. Maybe it would reach to the small of her back. Sandstone red shading to gold, with no gray. She has the Grobal nose.”
Kiit raised her eyebrows. “Unattractive, then.”
“No, not really. Just maybe—distinctive. It’s a handsome enough face.” He shook his head. “Grobal Tagaret must have told her about me. Sirin and Eyn, she wasn’t supposed to be so powerful. She—” Nearly sucked into it again, he looked away. The nearby wysp drifted slowly up to the high ceiling and vanished into it.
“She frightened you,” Kiit whispered. “You—I can hardly imagine it. None of the Grobal girls ever frightened you.” She caught a horrified breath. “She didn’t touch you, did she?”
“No—no.” That was the strangest, and still inexplicable. If she had wanted to dissuade him and anger Grobal Garr, why hadn’t she actually touched him, or hit him with that rabbit? “It’s so horrible,” he said. “She hates her partner, and he deserves it. You just can’t imagine how much she hates him, and all he does is smile.”
Kiit grimaced. “Well, at least they told you no.”
“They didn’t say anything at all. Their First Houseman apologized to me.”
“But at least you did what you needed to, to be disqualified. Facing that, it wouldn’t have been hard to blush, or shake, or turn away.”
“I—I shook all the way home,” he said. He tried to laugh, but his eyes felt hot with tears.
“It’s no shame to you,” Kiit said softly. “Listen to me, Aloran. You’ve done what you needed to do. It’s time to leave this behind. Isn’t it?”
He dragged in a breath. “Yes. I guess.”
“The sooner you let go of it, the sooner your life will come back to normal. Everything is going to be all right.”
Aloran nodded. The review he could let go of, but the holes still burned.
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