The Accession Ball, now—that was a real worry. Every member of the Pelismara Society in a single room pressing hands, when one of their own had just died of Kinders fever? If only he could offer his Mistress an inoculant—but even if she would permit the suggestion, and were not allergic, there was no time for it to take effect. With that kind of contagion risk, he’d be tempted to wear his treatment gloves.
Gloves.
That wasn’t a bad idea—Kartunnen sometimes wore cloth gloves for fashion. But if his Lady were not to consider them beneath her, they would have to be handmade to match what she wore to the Ball.
He found his service speaker and flicked it on, but heard only silence in his Lady’s chamber. If he opened the small door with the crescent-moon handle, he could go and study her wardrobe. But if she were still there, sitting quietly, she would be angry because she wanted to be alone. Lady Tamelera, angry.
He opened the door into the Maze and went looking for Serjer.
He found the First Houseman in the laundry, pressing and folding napkins. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “May I ask you a question?”
Serjer nodded. “Certainly.”
“Do you know what the Lady plans to wear at the Accession Ball? I need to make gloves to match, and I don’t have much time before my duties start.”
The crescent cross between Serjer’s brows lifted slightly. “I don’t imagine you’ll have time for shopping now, but if you can specify a list, I’ll pass it on to the Residence Household for you. As to her choice of wardrobe . . .” He switched off the steam press. “Our Mistress appreciates art. She had a collection of custom gowns made while in Selimna, and I imagine she’d choose one of those. They may be difficult to match, however, because they’re patterned after the sky.”
Had he heard correctly? “The sky.”
Serjer’s mouth quirked a little. “Yes, she has unusual tastes. The gown she’s wearing today is the midday gown; I’ve seen her try the dawn gown and the sunset gown, though she hasn’t worn them publicly. Since Mother Elinda will be invoked at the Accession ceremony, I suspect she’ll choose the midnight gown. Would you like to see it?”
“I don’t want to interrupt her—”
Serjer’s brows pinched. “I think we must,” he said. “I’ll give you all our measurements for her, but we’ve never measured her hands.”
Of course not. Aloran closed his eyes for a deep breath.
“Aloran,” Serjer said gently, “what you saw—she was angry, but she was mostly performing for the Master. She is kind to us.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He would grasp at any small hope—but he wasn’t one of them. The Artist scolded in his mind: The love that comes after is yours to make. “Serjer, would you—could you, come with me?”
“Of course.” Serjer fetched a measuring tape from a metal drawer, then accompanied him down the hall and knocked on the crescent-moon door. Thank Heile. He couldn’t have mustered the courage on his own.
The Lady’s voice issued from the service speaker. “You may come in.”
They went in. The Lady sat facing them, body tense and arms crossed. Bowing, Aloran tried not to look like he was terrified. He did study the gown she wore, which was a masterpiece: flowing silk in a vivid, hand-dyed light blue, with patterns of fine white embroidery that rippled and swirled across it. That color would be impossible to match.
“Pardon us, Mistress,” Serjer said. “Aloran has an innovative idea for your wardrobe at the Accession Ball, and—as it happens—I do not possess sufficient measurements to aid him.”
At the word ‘innovative,’ interest sparked in Lady Tamelera’s eyes. “What is it, Serjer?”
“Aloran?” said Serjer.
Aloran cleared his throat. “I perceive a danger that Kinders fever may be passed among those gathered at the Ball,” he said. “I would like to measure you for gloves to match whatever gown you have chosen.”
“Gloves!” the Lady exclaimed. “Now that’s something I’ve never seen in the Pelismara Society.”
Did that mean no? Aloran bowed.
But she seemed genuinely intrigued. “Serjer,” she said, “show him the midnight gown, please. Gloves—they’d be shocked!”
“Indeed, Mistress,” said Serjer. From the broad wardrobe against the wall, he pulled out a floor-length sleeveless gown of black silk. What elevated it from Imbati to breathtaking was a profusion of tiny diamonds recreating the starry night from hem to shoulder.
“I’d like to shock them,” the Lady said. Her hands were less confident than her voice. Her long, shapely fingers shook slightly when she held them out.
Aloran hated to touch her, but it was impossible to take the measurements properly any other way. He winced inside with every slightest brush and kept his eyes lowered, praying she wouldn’t be too angry at his lack of precision. Serjer kindly noted down the measurements.
As he rolled the measuring tape, Lady Tamelera said hesitantly, “If . . .”
Aloran stopped rolling. He waited, but she didn’t continue. After a moment, he murmured, “Yes, Lady?”
She cleared her throat. “If it’s a health issue, I believe—I believe we should measure Tagaret’s hands also.”
“Yes, Lady.”
“Serjer, could you run and get him, please?”
Serjer bowed but didn’t move. “Would you permit me a presumption, Mistress?”
“Yes?”
“Aloran wishes with all his heart for you to accept his service.”
Aloran flushed and nearly dropped the measuring tape. Oh, don’t let her be angry . . .
Lady Tamelera pulled her hands back against her stomach. “Ah, Aloran—” Her voice sounded very small. “I believe Tagaret is in his rooms. Could you please fetch him for me? And, ah, ask him to bring the suit I gave him for his birthday.”
He bowed. “Yes, Lady.”
This time, Serjer stayed behind. Aloran walked out the public door into the drawing room and peeked to the right down the hall. One door down there—that would be the one to avoid. Which meant the door directly across from him was Grobal Tagaret’s door—or, young Master Tagaret’s, since he’d be the young Master now. It stood slightly ajar. Aloran raised his hand to knock—
And found himself face-to-face with Nekantor.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Priorities
What in the name of Varin’s teeth was an Imbati doing here?
“Listening!” Nekantor snapped. “How dare you?”
“Young Master, if I may—” the Imbati said, bowing low, but not before the black hair and broad shoulders gave him away. Gnash him, it was the Imbati from the play session—the one who played games.
“Do you think you can play a game with me, Imbati?” Nekantor demanded. “You care about what I say to my brother? What did you hear?”
“Pardon me, young Master,” the Imbati said. “I heard nothing. I came to see young Master Tagaret. May I please speak with him?”
Nekantor growled. Worst thing about Imbati—deflections, deflections. This Imbati had heard Tagaret say he didn’t care to become Heir, because Tagaret refused to say anything else.
Tagaret’s voice approached behind him. “Nek, what are you doing? Who’s there?”
Nekantor never took his eyes from the Imbati. “I’m accosting a spy,” he said—and see, how the Imbati flinched when he said the word ‘spy!’ Oh, yes, this one had been told to learn something. Something important—to learn whether Tagaret wanted to become Heir. That information had to be important to someone. Someone would want to know that Tagaret had no priorities at all and couldn’t see the value of the prize in front of his face.
Benél always listened.
“Mercy, Nek,” said Tagaret at his shoulder. “Leave him alone. That’s Mother’s new Aloran.”
Nekantor scowled. “Imbati, raise your head
.”
Slowly, the Imbati obeyed. Black hair. Dark eyebrows, and above them the manservant’s mark, new and raised with pink edges. Proof of loyalty.
“Fah,” Nekantor said. Distasteful, that Tagaret was right. Mother would never send her servant to find out if Tagaret wanted to become Heir; she’d just ask Tagaret. “He was listening, though, Tagaret. Aloran was listening to us.”
Tagaret made a small exasperated sound. “What did you need, Aloran?”
The spy will give himself away with his face—but Aloran answered without flinching. “Young Master Tagaret, your mother wishes to see you, and requests you bring the suit she gave you for your birthday. May I help you with it?”
“Fah,” Nekantor said.
“No need,” Tagaret answered. “I’ll get it. Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, young Master.”
And so the Imbati turned, walked away, and returned to Mother’s room.
Nekantor growled in his throat. Loyalty or not, Aloran played games.
His brother’s voice came behind him again. “Nek, move.”
Nekantor turned around. Tagaret was carrying his suit over his arm as if he were strolling out to some party.
“How can you pretend there’s nothing going on here?” Nekantor demanded. “You and I should be back in Father’s office, right now. We have important business to plan.”
Tagaret made a face. “Plan it yourself, Nek.”
That was enough. Gnash Tagaret, and gnash the Imbati, too. “Fine! You go play with Mother and her new toy.” He shoved out into the sitting room and went straight into Father’s office without knocking. “Father, Tagaret is a complete waste of time,” he declared, then stopped.
Father wasn’t in his chair; he was lying on the couch. The couch was new and different—unacceptable. It hadn’t been there before Father left, or when Father was away. And now was the time for Father to be back. It was not the time for him to be lying down.
Father knew as well as he did that Heir Selection was the best game of all. The vision rolled out in his head: twelve Families, twelve candidates, each following his own little line toward a center point where only one could remain. Once the candidates were confirmed and the voting rounds began, the little lines would twist and dance—and be marked with blood.
Just minutes ago, he and Father had been planning. They’d narrowed down the most likely candidates for each Family, identified basic strengths and weaknesses, talked about how to make sure the First Family’s candidate was strongest. Only the strongest candidate could stand at the center, beneath the hand of the Eminence Herin himself—and here was Father, taking a nap?!
“What in Varin’s name are you doing?” Nekantor snapped.
Father sat up slowly, wincing. “What is it, son?”
“The First Family must have the best candidate.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Father said. “Fifth and Third will be Tagaret’s toughest rivals. Fifth will probably choose Innis, even though he’s almost thirty-one—Tagaret will make him look old. Third has Foress and Vant, of course, but Xemell has the best health—and he’s fourteen. Tagaret can beat him just by looking mature.”
Nekantor scowled. “Not if he won’t try. Benél would do better.”
Father laughed, and his fat body quaked. “You woke me up to tell me that?”
Nekantor set his teeth. “Benél knows how to hold power, Father. He leads.”
Garr rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Benél is only an Adjudicator’s son, and he’ll never even rise to his father’s position. Tagaret can outthink him in his sleep.”
Nekantor closed his fists. “Not—if—he—won’t—try.”
Garr leaned forward and grasped his shoulder with a heavy hand. “Well, that’s why we’re working on him, isn’t it.”
Nekantor jerked away, but Father’s handprint stayed, sticky on his shoulder. “Then maybe you should be working on him instead of taking a nap!”
Father frowned. “I’ll do as I like, Nekantor. Now, you go find something useful to do.”
Nekantor stared, then whirled and walked away. Gnash Father, too! Do something useful? As if he hadn’t been working out the moves of Heir Selection ever since he found the ring? Even going to Benél’s would be more useful than staying here.
He couldn’t go to Benél’s carrying a handprint.
He went to his rooms, stripped off his clothes, and tossed them out the laundry chute. Picked out new ones from his dresser and put them on, closing each button in order. Trousers, one button; shirt, seven buttons; vest, three buttons to make eleven. He fastened his belt, straightened his cuffs, and moved from there into the circle.
He checked the door, running his finger along the crack between bronze and stone. Checked his desk—all the drawers closed, the chair pushed in until it touched. Checked the window shade, perfect, then ran his hand up the bed and tapped the bedside table three times. Veered left to avoid the curtain on the wall and went to his wardrobe, pressing its doors shut and also each drawer beneath, caressing its brass handles. Checked the bathroom door, and back to the main door to close the circle. Ahh, yes, now everything was perfect. Ready to go out.
Nekantor went to the front vestibule and considered the door handle. It was safer today in the halls than it had ever been—he’d be no target for assassination, because everyone knew Tagaret would be the one chosen. Only fifty-seven paces. He held his breath and dived out.
Luck was with him. Benél’s Household Imbati was quick to open the door.
“Young sir, what are you doing out at a time like this?” the Imbati said. “Hurry in, and I’ll get the Master.”
Nekantor stepped in, frowning. The Adjudicator was home? He waited, straightened his cuffs, and checked his buttons. This wouldn’t be a hard game, though; if the Adjudicator questioned him, he could always say Father had sent him.
Instead, it was Benél who came to the vestibule, smiling wide.
“Nekantor—Varin’s teeth!” Benél turned to the Imbati. “Remeni, Nekantor won’t stay long. Don’t bother Father with this when he’s so busy.”
The servant looked uncertain but bowed his head. Benél was good with servants.
Nekantor followed him in. This suite was exactly the same as his: all the walls and doors in the right place, exactly the same place. Only the furniture was different. And Benél’s rooms were in the same place as Tagaret’s rooms, but Benél’s door was open: he had no secret games. All the games that were important, they played together. Benél brought him in and locked the door against any others. It was their citadel.
“I can’t believe you came out,” Benél said. His hand came to the back of his neck, shook him.
Nekantor smiled. “Plenty of people are in danger, but not me. Not today.”
“Lucky you.” Benél turned away and prowled around the room. When he passed his desk, he kicked at its legs. “I hate being closeted like this! Father has hardly spoken to me.”
“Why? Is he planning your candidacy alone?”
Benél stopped and stared.
“Why does everybody think it’s a joke?” Nekantor demanded. “It’s not a joke. My brother is an idiot who can’t see the value of what’s in front of his nose. You have power. All the boys know it. They follow you because they want you to give it to them, too. You should be the First Family’s candidate.”
Benél’s face turned red, but he smiled. “I’d like that,” he said. “But the First Family is strong. We have a lot of good possible candidates.” He shrugged. “I’m sure other Families are fighting over the same problem right now.”
Nekantor nodded. The Twelve Great Families loomed all around, each one fighting over who would enter the game—who would become the focus of power, and the target for death, the boy who walked that twisting path to the center. “It’s a goo
d game,” he said. “They’re fighting, but I know who they’ll pick.”
Benél was watching him. “I bet you do,” he laughed. “Let’s have a drink and you tell me about it.” His lip curled into a smile.
That was a smile full of secrets, secrets to be shared inside their citadel. It felt very good.
Benél got down on the floor beside his dresser and reached underneath, found a bottle and a small glass. He poured the glass full. The liquor was luminous brown—chatinet, like in the whore’s bedroom.
In the whore’s mirror, the bed whispering of sex, and Benél moving, pushing his hands among glass bottles . . .
Nekantor sucked in a breath; it came out again as a laugh.
Benél looked through the liquor at the lamp beside his bed. “I found this in Father’s office,” he said. “Last week you liked it. Didn’t you?”
Chatinet put warmth in his stomach and made him dizzy. “I liked it,” Nekantor said.
“All right, then.” Benél came and offered him the glass.
Nekantor didn’t take it. Benél’s clothes were rumpled, from getting down on the ground. They were all wrong, and had to be fixed. He tugged on the silk at Benél’s shoulders, straightened his vest. Took his belt and realigned it with the button on his trousers.
Benél laughed. The glass in his fingers jiggled a little.
Nekantor took the glass from him, drank a sip. Chatinet invaded his throat and nose. It was sweet, and burned, and smelled like the whore’s room, like sex and secrets. “Tagaret won’t be our candidate,” he said. “He can’t be.”
“Why?”
“Simple. He doesn’t care.”
Benél’s eyebrows lifted. “How can he not care? It’s Heir Selection, for Plis’ sake.”
“See, that’s why my father has to choose you.” Nekantor lifted the glass and drained it, because a glass should be full or empty. The chatinet ignited in his stomach.
Benél took the glass, filled it, and raised it high. “Here’s hoping you can do it.” He tossed his head back; muscles moved in his throat.
Mazes of Power Page 16