Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Indal of the Fifth Family, we release you into our Mother’s care.”

  “We release you.”

  Tagaret let go. Scarves twisted and fluttered to the carpet. Better if the fever could be banished so easily.

  Now a man’s baritone began to sing—the Voice of Varin rising. First to appear out of the crowd, though, was the Heir. Pyaras grabbed Tagaret’s arm excitedly. Herin climbed slowly onto the stage, shining out across the Hall in a suit of regal white silk. The Voice of Varin, wearing the gold disc of Varin upon his chest, mounted the steps behind him. Herin stopped at the center of the stage, and the Voice of Varin wrapped the white-and-gold drape of the Eminence around his shoulders, fastening it on his right shoulder with a shining pin.

  “The day of the Eminence Indal has ended,” the Voice of Varin declared. “The day of the Eminence Herin has begun. All hail the Eminence Herin!”

  “All hail the Eminence Herin!” The enormous shout pounded in Tagaret’s body.

  The Eminence Herin raised his arms to the assembled people, who fell into silence. “It is with a heavy heart for my friend Indal that I take this responsibility upon myself,” he said. “And now I wish to dedicate myself to my people.”

  Behind him, the throne looked less like the work of an artisan and more like an ancient vine that had grown out of the stage. Herin sat down upon it, stroking its burnished arms as if delighted by their curving, twined shape. The Voice of Elinda and the Voice of Varin moved to places on either side of him.

  “What does that mean?” whispered Pyaras.

  Tagaret had a general idea, but looked for Mother—she’d seen an Accession before.

  “It’s for all the Varini,” Mother explained softly. “Herin has officially assumed the Grobal Trust on behalf of the Race, and now the Lowers will accept his leadership.”

  An Arissen walked up onto the stage. He cut a powerful figure in his bright rust-red dress uniform, wearing the feather-crested helmet of a military Division Commander. He saluted before the throne. “I am Revett of the Pelismara Division, and I speak for the Arissen,” he said. “I give my people into your Trust.” He crossed to the Eminence’s other side and went to a small table at the back of the stage, where two Imbati, a male warden and female bureaucrat, watched him sign something. Then he returned to the front of the stage and stood proudly looking out.

  Somewhere behind Tagaret, a singsong whisper came, “Arissen Pya-raas . . .”

  Pyaras made a strangled sound, and whirled.

  Gods, not in front of everyone! Tagaret flung his arms around him—for a second Pyaras struggled—then by Heile’s mercy, Pyaras subsided with a gasp, burying his face in Tagaret’s coat.

  “You’re all right,” Tagaret murmured. Gnash Nekantor. “They’re wrong. Don’t listen to them.”

  Pyaras fought tears. “I hate them,” he whispered. “Arissen—I hate them!”

  Don’t let Father notice . . . Tagaret patted his back. “Just don’t listen.”

  By the time he looked up, three more Lowers had come onstage. A small, graceful and dignified Imbati man with long white hair and the faded tattoo of a manservant, and a sharp-eyed Kartunnen woman with a purple lip and pale gray academic robes both stood at the front looking out. A huge Venorai woman now presented herself to the Eminence. She was obviously a surface worker, for her skin was a striking sunmarked brown. She wore a laborer’s thick black belt over a gaudy tunic. Blinking at it, he realized the design was a print of flowers.

  “I am Kitrin, elected leader of the Venorai Union, and I speak for all of us.” Her powerful voice made the room seem small, and only got louder as she added, “I speak for the ones who give you your brass, your orsheth, and your food.” Murmurs of dismay and disapproval ran through the crowd. “I give my people into your Trust.”

  She strode off toward the signing table, and her place was taken by a Melumalai man who seemed meek in comparison. The weight of his silver-and-chrysolite necklace spoke louder than his words. “I am Odenli, chairman of the Melumalai Banking Syndicate, and I speak for the Melumalai. I give my people into your Trust.” He, too, went and signed his name.

  Only one left. A nervous shiver ran down Tagaret’s back. He searched behind Odenli—there? No; that wasn’t a dark gray hood, just a shadow in the crowd. The stairs to the stage stayed empty.

  The Akrabitti were missing.

  Herin didn’t seem to notice. When the Melumalai returned to the front of the stage, he stood and raised a paternal hand over the glimmering line of Lowers. “With the spirit of the Great Grobal Fyn as my guide, I pledge myself to the Grobal Trust,” he declared. “Giving to each according to need, the hand of the Grobal shall guide the land of Varin.”

  The Voice of Varin and the Voice of Elinda cried out again, “All hail the Eminence Herin!”

  “The Eminence Herin!” boomed the crowd.

  As the echoes died, Nekantor said sharply, “That was wrong. The pattern was broken.”

  “Hush, Nekantor,” said Father. “Now, everyone stick together and watch your step; we’re moving to the ballroom.”

  Tagaret took Pyaras’ shoulder and walked with the crowd toward the broad archway on the right of the stage, careful not to step on fallen mourning scarves. But for once, Nek was absolutely right. “It was wrong,” he said.

  Pyaras looked up. “Really? Why?”

  Tagaret shook his head. “Herin can’t have assumed the Trust for all the Varini when the Akrabitti were missing.” In fact, now that he thought about it, everything about those Lowers had been wrong. The beautiful silk costumes. The scripted words. None of them looked anything like the Arissen wrestlers, or Kartunnen Ryanin, or the Melumalai bartender. Only that Venorai woman had showed a glimpse of her true nature, and she’d won no favors from the crowd.

  Pyaras made a face. “Who’d want to see a trasher, though?”

  “Pyaras,” said Mother, chidingly.

  “Well, they don’t.”

  “It’s not that.” Mother lowered her voice. “It’s the ashers they don’t want to think of.”

  Tagaret shuddered. Mother was right—he didn’t want to imagine the people who now held what was left of Indal. After the mourning moon had fallen, no one wanted to think about endings anymore.

  They walked out of the deep archway into the ballroom, where an orchestra was playing. The crowd spread out, moved faster—began to speak of eligibles, and candidacies, and dealmaking. The hungry talk of Selection drowned the music, chattering on the stone walls, the windows, and the wooden floor.

  Father beckoned and smiled, and people swarmed inward, armed with questions. Tagaret tried to watch the older eligibles’ example, but before long it was too much, and he simply had to answer on his own, with as much enthusiasm as possible. Yes, I’m seventeen now. My health report was excellent; Father’s Sorn has it if you’d like to see. Of course, who wouldn’t be excited? Yes, it was hard when Father was away. He was still my political mentor, though; we wrote letters twice a week. I’ve worked with him intensively since he returned. No, I haven’t attended a cabinet meeting. Yes, we discuss them at home. The envoys of rival Familes might compliment, but they couldn’t disguise their appetites, and their smiles were full of sharp teeth. Even with Imbati Sorn, Aloran, and Chenna tense on the alert, he felt nowhere near safe—and Lady Selemei might appear at any moment. Maybe she was somewhere near even now, trying to be brave enough to face Father. Tagaret tugged his gloves tighter.

  “That’s it!” Father barked. “I’ve had it.” He trapped Tagaret’s wrists and yanked his gloves off.

  “Father—” Tagaret gasped. His hands felt cold, and his stomach churned. “Father, please. I need those.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s time you got serious here.”

  “Tagaret,” said Pyaras. “Look who’s coming.”

  Mercy, not Selemei . . . Tagaret turned in a pan
ic, but it wasn’t. A rush of relief weakened his knees. “Reyn!” he cried. “Fernar!”

  “It’s great to see you,” Reyn said. In his eyes was a tinge of that desperate look he’d had when they were separated in the Conveyor’s Hall.

  With the sensation now expanding in his stomach, he probably looked the same.

  “You’re looking official, Tagaret,” Fernar grinned. “The portrait of an Heir candidate.”

  Tagaret found a smile. “So are you.” Someone had styled Fernar’s dark hair, and he looked poised and confident. On impulse, Tagaret hugged him—and Fernar clasped solidly back, a proof that Selection hadn’t quite changed everything. “How in Eyn’s name did you escape the Eleventh Family?”

  Fernar laughed, thumping him on the back. “Guile, fifteen rival eligibles, and a borrowed manservant.”

  “Oh, well done!” Tagaret released him and embraced Reyn.

  “I miss you,” Reyn whispered.

  Oh, gods, yes. Tagaret didn’t trust himself to speak, just nodded. He forced himself to thump Reyn on the back, then reached out to include Fernar in a huddle. “What a mess,” he said. “When do we all get to be together again? Where’s Gowan?”

  “In the center of attention, of course,” said Reyn. “No one’s so eligible as he!”

  “Lucky him.”

  Fernar shrugged. “He’s always been more about politics than the rest of us. It serves him well right now.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Tagaret said. “Look, I should tell you—Pyaras here needs our protection, so when all this is over, he’s going to join us awhile. I hope you won’t mind.” Pyaras, who had been hanging nearby, smiled shyly.

  “He is good in a fight,” said Fernar approvingly.

  Reyn stiffened. “Tagaret—it’s Lady Selemei!”

  Tagaret straightened fast, grasping at Reyn and Fernar’s hands for support. His heart pounded in his ears. Lady Selemei and her Ustin were still a few paces away. The Lady had handed her cane to her servant, and had clasped the hands of a man from the older eligible group; he had her eyes, and was smiling broadly at her. Nekantor drew near, as if thirsty for impending conflict. Father bristled.

  “Tagaret,” said Fedron. “Be polite with her, now.”

  Fedron must have meant the warning for Father, but Father lumbered toward Selemei, showing no sign that he’d heard.

  “Selemei, keep out of this,” he said.

  Lady Selemei smiled, with a nervous glance for Tagaret, and held out one hand so Ustin could return her cane. “I’m sure it’s only natural for a Family’s cabinet members all to be present,” she said. “I only thought I’d give Brinx my good wishes.”

  “Which shows you have no respect for the First Family’s strategy.”

  “Garr, please.” Arbiter Erex stepped away from his group of younger boys. “I don’t believe direct confrontation is part of our strategy.”

  Tagaret blinked. Direct confrontation. Selemei had said something at the tea: In a direct confrontation, we always lose. That was why she hadn’t come earlier, and why she hadn’t approached him first. She’d told him she needed the support of men. He was the one who needed to be brave enough.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Lady Selemei, thank you for coming,” he said loudly. “Father, and Fedron, I have a wonderful surprise for you! I’ve asked Lady Selemei to act as my sponsor tonight.”

  Fedron’s mouth fell open. Father spluttered, “What?!”

  “Why, congratulations!” Reyn exclaimed.

  “Tagaret, that’s great news,” said Fernar.

  Lady Selemei nodded to them. “It’s so kind of you both! I must say, Fedron, I was honored when Tagaret suggested it. I’m excited to have the opportunity at an occasion like this.”

  “Tagaret . . .” Father swelled threateningly, on the brink of explosion. “You’re not serious.”

  A bubble of fear tried to burst in Tagaret’s throat, but the only way out was forward. Seeing that Father’s hand had loosened around his white gloves, he snatched them back and put them on again, tugging them on tight. “Yes, yes, I am. Quite serious. Lady Selemei is the best possible sponsor for me tonight, even if you don’t see it.”

  Father started to crack. “Even if I—!”

  “He’s right,” said Nekantor.

  Tagaret stared. Had Nekantor just said he was right?

  Father seemed just as stunned. “What are you saying, Nekantor?”

  Nekantor calmly straightened his vest. “I’m saying that the First Family can only be hurt if we are perceived to have a rift between our cabinet members. If Tagaret is seen escorted by Lady Selemei, the First Family demonstrates unity and our cause is strengthened.”

  Lady Selemei relaxed into a demure smile. “I had no idea there was such an astute bit of strategy behind your invitation, Tagaret,” she said. “But I am happy to oblige.”

  Father chewed his lip. “Fine, go ahead. Good to see you applying yourself, Tagaret.” His eyes added, We’ll talk about this later.

  “Tagaret, I would very much enjoy a walk around the ballroom with you,” Lady Selemei said. “May we, so that we can meet some of our competition?”

  And leave behind his friends? But Pyaras had Erex to look after him, and Reyn and Fernar were already being missed elsewhere—besides which, he’d do anything to get away from Father.

  Tagaret said his goodbyes and began to walk. The crowd still felt dangerous, but it was totally different to be moving, and to be with Lady Selemei and Mother, guarded by Ustin and Aloran instead of Chenna and Sorn. Even the way the Lady held her cane lent an additional sense of protection.

  “You know,” Tagaret said, “I think I might actually enjoy this evening.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Selemei. “It’s not every day you get handed a shortcut to your deepest desires.”

  He conceded a nod. “You’re right, of course. I could really make some changes if I were Heir—but this feels like a cut through the adjuncts. Lots of cracks and pitfalls to die in.”

  “You’ll have people looking after you.”

  People like Father and Nekantor. Tagaret winced. “That’s worse, though. They all want to control me. I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

  “Not sure it’s worth it?” Lady Selemei asked, looking at him sidelong. “On the contrary. You must not have thoroughly considered it.”

  “Selemei,” Mother scolded.

  “It’s all right, Mother.” Tagaret looked hard at Lady Selemei. “We’re allies now, aren’t we? What do you mean, I mustn’t have considered it?”

  Lady Selemei raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps you didn’t realize the Heir has his pick of the Families, to take any partner he likes.”

  Tagaret stopped breathing. The air had become a bath of electricity; his entire body prickled.

  Della. What if she were no longer a dream? What if she could be real? Sirin and Eyn!

  “Then let’s walk,” Tagaret said. “Let’s show our First Family strength.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dangerous Trespasses

  When it was all over, Aloran shut the crescent-moon door behind him and stood still a moment. The private silence was a relief, but his body quivered with fatigue after hours of vigilant tension. The boys had gone back to their rooms and the Master to his office with Grobal Fedron, attended by Sorn and Chenna. Lady Tamelera had dismissed him again and gone to bathe alone.

  Home safely—but not really safe.

  Even with his Lady and young Master Tagaret wearing gloves, there had still been so many unprotected hands, shaking, patting, touching. Contagion rating medium, with that kind of exposure . . . If the Master himself didn’t contract Kinders fever, someone close to the family surely would. Now was the time to act, or he might find himself helplessly standing by when someone died at their dinner table.

 
He had a few minutes—it might be nearly midnight, but Premel wouldn’t serve Household dinner until Sorn came off-duty, and no doubt Sorn and Fedron’s Chenna would be occupied in the Master’s office for a while.

  Aloran locked his room. He jogged from the Residence into the Academy, and went to the Body Sciences building.

  Ezill the pharmacy warden bowed as he walked in. “Good evening, Aloran. I suppose the Residence medical center is too busy for your comfort tonight.”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me to go there,” he admitted. After only two days, no matter how intensive, he hardly felt he belonged to a noble house. “Please tell me I haven’t lost my privileges here.”

  “Of course not. I must remind you, though: now that you’re marked, your access to medications will depend on which expense marker you’re using.”

  “Ah, right.” Aloran scanned the carefully labeled bottles and tubes along the glass shelves. Special green labels marked those medications—like mood stabilizers and contraceptives—whose use by the Grobal was subject to strict regulation. Fortunately, those weren’t what he needed to treat the onset of Kinders fever. He wrote down his order and set down the expense marker that the First Family had provided.

  Ezill looked at him hard. The pharmacy warden didn’t possess the certifications his clients did, but he knew his inventory well after so many years. He whispered low, “May I ask?”

  “I estimate we’ll see a spike in fever cases about three days from now,” Aloran answered. “You may want to increase your stock.”

  Ezill gave a deep, private frown as he turned away with the order slip. He reached for an adrenaline delivery tube.

  A voice echoed over from the treatment area. “Aloran?”

  Kiit’s voice? What would she be doing here at this hour? Dismay chilled Aloran’s fingers. When he turned around, he discovered Kiit sitting in a chair beside one of the treatment beds. Her dark hair was unbound. She didn’t look injured, but there was something about her eyes . . .

  He shook his head. “Kiit, may I ask you a question?”