“Congratulations,” said Master Ziara.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, in a half-whisper. How could this be happening? He’d failed so badly—how could it not have been enough? He returned his classmates’ bow, then followed her out.
Master Ziara strode at a stiff pace down the stone hall toward her office. “We have much to do before I accompany you to the suite as witness,” she said. “Your move has already been arranged. Your appointment with Artist Orahala is at four thirty-two afternoon.”
Less than an hour? Had a Marking ever been scheduled so fast?
“Master Ziara,” he said hoarsely.
She turned to look at him.
But what could he say? He didn’t want this. Lady Tamelera didn’t want it either, but she’d already paid his Marking fee and first month’s salary, or he couldn’t have been called out. Why had she accepted him? How could he face her? Yet he must be hers: Tamelera’s Aloran. Tamelera’s burden.
Master Ziara stepped away again. She brought him into her office and locked the door. “Aloran, there’s more,” she said. “The Eminence Indal is dead of Kinders fever. Herin of the Third Family is now Eminence of all Varin.”
His manners failed. “What? It hopped the wall again?”
Master Ziara kindly ignored his rudeness; she took up a scented cloth from her desk and held it out. “Wash your face for the Artist while I speak to you,” she said. “There is some special information you need now.”
Aloran took the cloth, but tremors began in his stomach. New information now must be privileged, not public—and therefore, not to be shared until the Marking was certain. He took a deep breath. “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”
Master Ziara smiled. “Thank you. Allow me to explain. You are being Marked into a position which has just greatly increased in importance. Grobal Tagaret is expected to be a prime candidate for Heir, so Grobal Garr wants you bodyguarding both your Lady and her son, at least until he has his own bodyguard assigned.”
“I understand.” His classmates would give anything to be so fortunate. Aloran lifted the scented cloth and rubbed it across his face. The cosmetic circle between his brows marked the fabric with a black smear. He folded it and wiped again, carefully, and then again. When no pigment remained, he shivered.
Master Ziara politely averted her eyes. “There’s more,” she said. “The Academy considers Garr’s Sorn to be dangerous. He is suspected to have played a role in the murder of Dest of the Eleventh Family in the last Heir Selection, and with a new Heir Selection now upon us, I fear we may see him act again.”
Aloran swallowed. That explained her reaction when he’d reported the senior servant’s strange behavior. “May I ask—am I in danger from him?”
“You might be, if you were to discover him in illegal activity, or if you should chance to uncover any details about his past actions.”
He shook his head. “Well, I wouldn’t neglect my Mistress to serve the Courts.”
“Would you not?” she asked, suddenly intense. She leaned both hands on her desk. “What about the nation of Varin, then? I would not request this of you, Aloran, if not for your unique position. Will you swear, for the sake of Grobal lives at risk, to keep a place reserved in your heart for the service of the nation above that of your Mistress?”
Only yesterday, he’d protested he must serve the nation—but this request was frightening. How deep must be their suspicion, that the Academy would ask a student to stain his vow of service and hide secrets from his own mistress?
“Master Ziara, I’m sorry,” Aloran said. “I will need every bit of my strength to vow myself to her already.”
Master Ziara’s face melted with unexpected sympathy. “Then I won’t press you there. Would you swear instead to watch Garr’s Sorn, and report to the Academy any information you might find?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “To put myself in danger—”
“To serve,” she said. “No more than that.”
The call of vocation was strong—but to dive past a warning marker was to invite rockfall, and Garr’s Sorn was suspected of the ultimate transgression. “I can’t promise.”
“I understand,” said Master Ziara. “Come with me.”
Together they walked out the front doors of the Academy building. No one was around to see him face-naked in public. Probably they were in class, reviewing the complex procedures of legal election—and illegal assassination—by which the Grobal selected their Heirs. The gate wardens with their diamond-within-diamond tattoos bowed to him.
“The children of the Academy are always welcome to return,” they said.
Aloran bowed. “Thank you, sirs. I have been grateful for your protection.”
He was grateful, too, for Master Ziara’s company, or he might have been too unsettled to remember the way to the Artist’s chamber. In by the service entrance beside the Residence’s main doors, along a Maze hall, then up all the way to the top of a spiral stairway to the third floor and along the hall again. They were two minutes early. He waited, but could not find the rhythm of the breathing exercise, to keep calm. Lady Tamelera’s blue eyes arose in his memory, burning hot—or maybe so cold they burned, irises sharp, needles of ice around a bottomless black center.
“It’s time,” said Master Ziara.
Aloran went in.
The room was dim, with cornices lurking in the corners of the ceiling. The only light came from a shadowy metal arm descending from the roof. Its bright circle illuminated a reclining chair and a metal table bearing the Artist’s tools: vials, swabs, a simple black pen, and of course the instrument itself, molded in steel to fit the Artist’s hand.
Artist Orahala appeared from behind a curtain, dressed in white to match the rope of her hair curling into a fossil seashell atop her head. The manservant’s tattoo on her forehead was the only anchor for her strange lightness. Her face, expressionless, held a thousand lines of past expressions to give her joy, grief, anger, and love at once. “Aloran,” she said.
He’d dreamed of this moment. He bowed, in awe and horror.
“Please sit down.”
The chair whirred and moved, until she had him looking up into the light. Her hand descended bearing the ephemeral scent of alcohol; a swab whispered over his skin, trailing cold in its wake.
“The Mark must suit the wearer,” she murmured, raising her pen. “A firm center, to reflect a strong spine.” The pen stroked down his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He tried to breathe calmly. “The curves of the chevron must reach with the tall man’s poise.” A stroke up to his hairline, then another. “Grace in the eyebrows reflected in the arcs. You do not pluck your eyebrows, Aloran.”
“No, sir.”
She nodded. “An arc may be strong over a black brow but must be lighter than the brow itself.”
This line felt swift and cold. He tightened his hands on the armrests of the chair, but words escaped him anyway. “Artist, what if it’s wrong?”
Orahala paused. “It isn’t wrong,” she said. “It simply is.” The pen drew two shorter facing curves, down his forehead to the bridge of his nose where all the lines converged. Then her hands disappeared; pads came to rest against the top of his head and behind his ears, pinning him motionless. Though her face was lined, the Artist’s hands were as steady as the immovable shinca trees.
“But her partner inquired without her permission,” he whispered desperately, while slow spirals tickled above each eyebrow. “She was given no choice. She hates me. How can I make the vow to her when she hates me? The money isn’t important—is it really too late to give everything back?”
“Imbati, love where you serve,” the Artist said. “Nothing else will matter.” There was a hum. The device glittered in her hand—he shrank away from it.
“Artist . . .”
�
�She has selected you, Aloran,” Orahala said. “This will not be the last time in your life you must accept the inevitable. Taking the Mark in a mistress’ name is like accepting the partnership she will choose for you. It is a commitment. Love, if it comes before, is simply luck. The love that comes after is yours to make. In the name of Lady Grobal Tamelera of the First Family.”
Aloran closed his eyes. “In the name of Lady Grobal Tamelera of the First Family.”
The needle didn’t hurt so badly, but the tears welled up anyway. It lasted forever, the needle returning and returning while he wept, unable to stop. In the end, the cold touch of the ointment was a shock. Every tender line of the Mark felt burned into his skin with perfect, permanent clarity. The Artist put a silk handkerchief into his hand and released him from the chair. He dabbed the cloth lightly on his wet cheeks, afraid to touch his face at all.
Outside the room, everything seemed completely unfamiliar. Master Ziara pacing downstairs ahead of him was no longer his advisor. This hallway would be his way home. Serjer at the door was now his colleague in the Household of the First Family.
“Welcome, Aloran, sir,” Serjer said. “Master Ziara, welcome. The Mistress is ready for us.” There were signs of disturbance in the house; the sitting room looked as if it had been disarranged and hastily put back together, and Serjer seemed nervous. The First Houseman led them farther in and knocked at the Master and Mistress’ chambers.
“Come in.” That was Lady Tamelera’s voice as he had first heard it: sweet, distressed, and delicate, barely audible behind a door. Don’t let it change.
The Lady was sitting with lowered eyes, in the same chair where he had placed her son at the Master’s review. A paper contract lay beyond her on her writing table. Aloran forced himself to walk close, to kneel at her feet. The hem of her dress was light blue, embroidered with fine stitches in white. Beneath it showed the toe-tips of her white silk shoes.
The vow began with ‘Mistress.’ Mistress, don’t hurt me. Mistress, forgive me for not being what you wanted. His tears rose again, but he swallowed them. This was the beginning of his duty.
“Mistress,” he said. “The Mark upon my face I have taken in your noble name. Thus I kneel before you to offer my duty, my honor, my love, and my life to your service. Upon your loyal servant, pray you bestow a touch, the seal of your hand upon this, the vow of my heart.”
She didn’t move. No anger in her today, but fear, like an animal cornered. Heile only knew she was as dangerous. She glanced past him, uncertainly. “I’ve signed the contract,” she said. “Must I?”
“Anywhere it please you, Lady,” said Master Ziara.
Would she touch the Mark? He tried not to cringe while she studied his face. She lifted her hand toward that bare and vulnerable path into his secret self, and he held his breath—but she laid her hand instead upon his cheek.
“Ziara as Academy witness.”
“Serjer as Household witness.” In the corner of his eye, the two crossed to the writing table and signed their names.
“With your permission, Lady,” said Master Ziara.
Lady Tamelera nodded. “You may be excused.”
Aloran remained on his knees. The door shut almost inaudibly, a mark of Serjer’s skill. Alone with her and helpless: this was the way it would be, except when it was far, far worse.
“I’m sorry, Aloran,” Lady Tamelera sighed. “I—well, I suppose it’s that I’ve never done this before.”
He lowered his eyes and kept silent. How could he have reassured her, even if it had been his place?
“I’ll give you some time,” she said. “An hour, to settle in before your duties start at dinner. It’s not much, I know. My Eyli—” she choked off the words and cleared her throat. “Eyli said you were quick, and I could train you on the job. I won’t need service in the bath. I’ve mostly been doing it myself anyway, to spare her knees.”
“Mistress,” he murmured, casting a cautious glance up. She grimaced—mistake. Try again. “Lady. I am yours to command.”
She looked away toward the window. In profile, her face was both fragile and sharp, as glass already broken once. “I’ll need you to watch Garr, so he doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “His Sorn will try to stop you.”
He couldn’t stop a shudder. “Yes, Lady.”
“There will be no night duties; I have no disorders.”
“You are healthy, Lady,” he said. “I’m certain of it.”
“Try not to—” She winced. “Never assume that an order from Garr is an order from me.”
“No, Lady.”
“I think that’s everything.”
If only it were. He cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“Lady, I have been told the Master wishes me to bodyguard young Master Tagaret,” he said. “May I consider that an order from you?”
“Yes, whenever Tagaret and I are together. The Accession Ball will be the first major danger.” The thought seemed to upset her. She crumpled in slightly upon herself, looking away to the window again. “I’ll be alone now. You are excused.”
“Thank you, Lady.”
He gathered himself, stood, and left through the door to the drawing room.
Serjer was waiting for him. “Allow me to take you out of the public rooms, sir,” he said. “I should introduce you to our Maze.”
“Yes, please.” Finally, shelter from the gaze of noble eyes.
Two curtained doors led out of the entry vestibule, one on either side as they faced the front door. Serjer indicated the one on the right. “Through this door is the lesser Maze, with my personal space, the Keeper’s space, and the caretaker’s space,” he said. “The caretaker’s position is currently unfilled. From the caretaker’s hallway you can access the boys’ rooms. Nekantor’s rooms are farthest at the end of the hall, and if you value your person, I recommend you leave his door alone.”
Good idea. Aloran nodded.
“On the other side here is the main Maze entrance. Let’s go in.” A straight narrow hall ran along the inside of the suite’s front wall, lined with neat, shadowy shelves. “Shelf lights switch on here when you need them,” Serjer said, indicating an illuminated switch, and when the shelves changed to smooth metal, “this is the backside of the pantry cabinet—we access it from the kitchen on the other side.”
At the end of the narrow hall, where the Maze turned a sharp left along the side of the suite, there was an exit into the main Residence hallway. Serjer entered numbers at a keypad on the wall. “Put your palm here, please, sir.”
Aloran pressed his hand to a panel of glass; a red light flashed briefly behind it.
“Now you’ll be able to get in here directly without using the front door. All unaccompanied staff must enter here, including the Residence Household when we request their services. Please inform me if you need them, and I’ll contact the Household Director by intercom.”
“All right.”
Serjer led him down the side corridor. “Premel is our Keeper; he’s out ordering groceries at the moment, but he’ll want to discuss your meals later tonight or tomorrow. He and his partner Dorya have three children; their youngest just entered the Academy. Premel’s most often to be found here in the kitchen—” He indicated the first door they passed. “Then down here are the laundry and bathroom, which we all share, and this door is Sorn’s room.”
Aloran’s throat tightened. He’d have to pass Sorn’s room to get to his own? But he should have remembered: the Master had the right side of the bed, and the Mistress the left.
“Sorn’s partner is Fedron’s Chenna, who serves the Master’s closest cabinet ally; she stays here some nights, so don’t be surprised if you see her, but they have no children.”
“May I ask a question?” Aloran said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What time does the Master wake?�
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Serjer smiled a little. “At seven. If you wish to watch Sorn, he wakes at six sixteen.”
Smiling like that, Serjer probably had no idea what the Academy suspected of the head of their Household. “You are generous with information,” Aloran said.
Serjer inclined his head. “And here’s your room, at the end.” The room was small, but a window with a deep stone sill allowed light in from outside. It was empty except for three moving boxes, an unmade bed, and a simple polymer dresser beneath the window. “I’ll get you some sheets this afternoon,” Serjer said, “but usually you’ll get your own from the laundry room.”
“Oh, I can get them.”
“You were Marked today, sir,” Serjer said matter-of-factly. “I’ll get them. For now, I invite you to eat with me. It’s best to have something in your stomach before attending the family dinner.”
Food. He hadn’t even noticed he was hungry. “Oh, thank you, sir,” he sighed.
Serjer smiled again. “You do not owe me sir anymore, Aloran. I owe it you.”
“Ah. Maybe we could both forget about it?”
“In private only.” Halfway down the hall, Serjer added, “And I will give you a chance to reconsider when you have healed.”
* * *
—
When Aloran finished eating, he walked down the Maze hall to his room. Serjer had made the bed with stiff white sheets in precise corners. Aloran sat and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The Mark was sensitive and conscious, grasping his face like a hand—it refused to let him relax. Finally, he got up, changed from his Academy uniform into a black silk suit, and began emptying his moving boxes.
There wasn’t much. His implements, atop the dresser. His Body reference books, on the deep stone windowsill for now. His medical treatment kit, in the bottom drawer. His clothes, in the other drawers.
He was unprepared.
Tears welled up in his throat, but he forced himself to breathe. This was a job—the one he’d spent his whole life training for. Time to do it.
He’d have to buy more black suits. To find a coverlet for the bed. And more importantly, to purchase an armor-vest and combat rounders for the kind of bodyguarding they wanted.
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