Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

Instead of granting permission, she lashed his own question at him. “What happened to you?”

  Aloran flushed, suddenly aware again of the Mark grasping his face. “That should be evident.”

  Kiit stared at him. “You’re working for her? After everything we talked about?”

  She had always been blunt, but the questions stung. “Imbati, love where you serve,” he replied. “I can hardly object now, can I.”

  “Aloran, that’s not fair! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He swallowed. Mai’s truth, he hadn’t given her a thought—but he’d hardly had time to breathe.

  “Aloran,” Ezill said behind him. “Your order.”

  When he turned to collect the pouch, Ezill murmured, “Kiit took a bad fall in combat today; she’s here on concussion watch.”

  Kiit had never handled injury well. Maybe frustration was making her aggressive—and irritability was a symptom of concussion. He should try not to take insult. Aloran breathed himself calm; then he walked to Kiit and bent to her ear. “Kiit,” he said, “It happened very suddenly. I can’t imagine why she chose me, when she doesn’t want me. I’m trying . . .”

  Explaining it was a mistake. The words laid open an abyss inside him, filled with pain and helpless anger. To find someone worthy of true devotion was all he’d ever dreamed of—and now to be sent away, over and over? It hurt in places he hadn’t known he had. Should he tell himself it was better to be sent away than to get close to someone who could burn him with a glance? How could he even be asking himself that question? Shame rushed through him, hotter than his Lady’s eyes.

  Kiit touched his hand.

  Aloran jerked away. “Kiit—”

  “What—you pleaded for my advice, and didn’t take it, and now that you’re seeing the consequences, you don’t want me anymore?”

  “No . . .” He couldn’t handle questions; he had no answers. He gazed at her, trying to find his lovely Kiit again, but all their intimacies and confidences fell dimly into the gulf of hurt. “I have to go.”

  “You can’t. I don’t even know where to find you.”

  He frowned. “Of course you do. It’s no secret; the suite of Grobal Garr and Lady Tamelera is easy to find. Our Keeper will be insulted if I’m late for dinner.”

  “You can be late this once, Aloran. I thought love meant selflessness.”

  She might as well have slapped him. The very accusation was so selfish that suddenly he was shaking with fury. “So did I, Kiit. Whose love do you mean, exactly?”

  She dared to say it. “Yours.”

  “How can you say that to me?” he demanded. “I’m so selfish, but you won’t even give enough to understand that I gave up myself when I took the Mark? I’ve been working since morning and haven’t eaten since midday. You have no right to insist I reserve anything for you.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. Kiit hugged herself with both arms, and her eyes went cold. “I see,” she said. “Goodbye, Aloran. Congratulations on your new position.”

  Heart empty, Aloran ran back to the Residence. He rushed to tuck the medicines in his dresser drawer, but by the time he came out to the kitchen the Household had started to eat without him. The oval kitchen table had been expanded to seat six; feeling very obvious, he took a stool from the stack in the corner and sat beside Fedron’s Chenna.

  “My apologies,” he said. “I had an emergency errand at the pharmacy.”

  “Really,” said Sorn archly, from the head of the table. “Yet the Lady never sent you there on foot assignment—that much I know. It was selfish, Aloran.”

  Selfish. It couldn’t be, when all he ever tried to do was serve. His throat ached. He glanced at Keeper Premel, sitting beside his partner Dorya. Premel looked more hurt than angry; the man’s feelings were easy to read, maybe because of his training outside the Academy, or because of his provincial origins. An odd Safe Harbor idiom that Min had joked about popped up in Aloran’s head.

  “I blame the tides,” he said.

  For an instant there was shocked silence. Serjer’s eyes widened. Then Dorya gave an audible snort and started chuckling. Keeper Premel’s shoulders quaked with laughter. Hope awoke in Aloran’s heart, and for a moment, he could imagine truly being one of them . . .

  “Silence!” Sorn snapped.

  “Oh, Sorn,” said Fedron’s Chenna, not bothering to hide a note of amusement in her voice. “Just let him be. Go on, Aloran, eat.”

  Aloran cast her a gaze-gesture of gratitude. Chenna was severely beautiful in her Accession Ball finery. She and Kiit could not have been more opposite. Chenna’s figure was streamlined; her hair, the pale color of unbleached tillik-silk, was short at the nape but long at the top, braided into an intricate crown. He found himself analyzing how the style had been executed, then remembered his food and took a bite. Instantly, his mouth watered, and his stomach yawned. He ate faster.

  “You’re lucky, you know,” said Chenna. “I wish Premel were Keeper in our Household. All we get is Imbati one-pot.”

  Aloran looked at her again. She couldn’t be much over thirty—hard to believe she could be Sorn’s partner, despite the gold-and-diamond band hidden among the glittering rings on her fingers. He gave a nod to the greens, tender potatoes, and morsels of berry-garnished marshfowl remaining on his plate. “I’m grateful.”

  Sorn paused in his consumption to remark suppressively, “It is only our Master’s generosity.”

  “I differ, sir,” Dorya objected. “The Master pays, but meal creation falls to the Keeper.”

  Aloran didn’t dare speak. He cast a gaze-gesture of thanks in the Keeper’s direction and took another bite. For a few moments, silence continued, but then Fedron’s Chenna spoke again.

  “I know this feels like Varin’s teeth right now, Aloran, but it will get better.”

  Was his dismay so easy to read? Surely it was, for a Gentleman’s servant. Aloran sneaked a glance at Sorn before he replied, carefully, “Ah?”

  “Especially once young Master Nekantor decides you’re just a piece of furniture.”

  “Chenna . . .” Sorn glared at her.

  She gave a subtle shrug. “That’s how it happened for me, at least.”

  Aloran looked around. For some reason, all eyes at the table were suddenly focused on him, as if waiting to see how he would reply. He cleared his throat. “You’re generous with information, Chenna.”

  Sorn pushed back from the table. “And you can do better, Aloran,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I expect you’ll remember that tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” When the senior servant walked out, he sighed.

  Chenna rested her silverware across her empty plate. “I guess, while he was away with the Master, my partner forgot what a talker I am.” She stood up, extricating her skirts from her stool with a deft flick. “Good night, everyone.”

  At last, Aloran was able to return to his room. He sat on his bed, took the tie from his hair, and began slowly combing it out.

  Someone knocked on his Maze door.

  Aloran set down the comb. Who could be calling at this hour? Don’t let it be Sorn— Cautiously, he opened his door. “Yes?”

  It was Fedron’s Chenna.

  Her appearance had drastically changed. Her startling light hair, kinked by the style she’d worn, now floated down past her shoulders. She still possessed the lean athleticism of an experienced bodyguard, but she’d changed into a nightgown of silver-blue silk, revealing subtle curves he hadn’t previously noticed.

  “Sorry to disturb you so late,” she said.

  Aloran took a breath to gather himself. “Not at all. I didn’t realize you were staying tonight. May I be of service?”

  Chenna glanced to one side, maybe checking the hall for Sorn. “I have information to discuss.”

  “Then, please, come in.”

  Unfortunately, he had
no chair for guests. He sat down on his bed, and Chenna sat beside him, closer than he expected. Her eyes moved over his face with singular intensity. It was said a Gentleman’s servant could never really stop working. He tried to keep his expression blank.

  “I’m sorry Garr’s Sorn is giving you so much trouble,” Chenna said.

  Aloran couldn’t help his surprise. “Garr’s Sorn?”

  The graceful spiral lifted over Chenna’s left eyebrow. “I often refer to him formally,” she said. “He is my adversary. He comes to my bed only because Grobal Garr sends him to spy on me.”

  Aloran exhaled slowly, amazed that she would choose to take him into her confidence.

  Chenna looked at her hands, now bare of all their rings. “We were pledged to partnership eight years ago,” she said. “At first, I tried to stop him observing me for Grobal Fedron’s secrets. Then I realized my time would be better spent trying to steal Grobal Garr’s. The best thing I learned during his five years in Selimna was how not to let him swerve me from my goals. So I don’t think I should let him intimidate you, either.” In an oddly soft gesture to follow such shocking frankness, she raised one graceful finger and touched her neck, just behind her ear.

  Aloran shook his head. What was this? Was she trying to help him, or obligate him to her for a gift of information? His eyes couldn’t help but follow her pointing finger, and he remembered the short-cut strands of her hair, now hidden like an intimate secret at the nape of her neck. He breathed down his physical response to that thought, and turned aside, so his hair fell in a curtain between them. “Chenna, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Imbati, love where you serve is a cruel commandment,” she said. “But you already know that, I think.”

  His body went hot, then cold. He shouldn’t let her test his calm like this. It wasn’t entirely her fault: the Academy was strange to him now, and Kiit appeared to be over. Worse, the more he devoted himself to his Lady, the more painful her dismissals would be—not to mention the inevitable failure he’d face trying to protect her from her own family. “Chenna, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

  “I’m here because I can help you protect Lady Tamelera,” Chenna said.

  Aloran winced. Reading faces seemed a lot like reading minds. Tempting him with such a hope was either kind, or terribly cruel. He looked directly into her sloping eyes. “The information you hinted of?”

  She nodded. “Sorn has stolen something that belongs to your Lady.”

  Aloran’s heart pounded. That wasn’t a gift—it was a snare. Duty would demand he identify the stolen object and return it, no matter what the risk. But if Chenna thought a Lady’s servant couldn’t detect ulterior motives, she was mistaken. “You want something from me in return for the information,” he said. “Otherwise you would tell me, not taunt me.”

  “True.” A smile curved her lips. “I think you know what I want. I’ve seen you looking at me.”

  His eyes dropped to her curves before he could stop them, robbing him of any denial. Every detail of her posture spoke of the strength and grace of her greater experience. He breathed to relax his body, but maybe because of his fatigue, it wasn’t as easy as it had been when he’d practiced detachment at the Academy. “This isn’t right,” he said. At least she hadn’t touched him.

  “I won’t trespass without your permission. One kiss, and I’ll tell you what Sorn stole.”

  “He must know you’re here.”

  “He does, and he doesn’t care. Partnership is only obligation; love is the jewel locked in the heart. Besides, he feels certain he already knows what I’m offering you.”

  What was she offering? Aloran measured his breathing. If Sorn didn’t know she was here about information, then what he thought she was offering had to be sex. Was it? He managed not to look down again, but remembered his earlier glimpse well enough that it didn’t matter.

  One kiss . . .

  Her lips were already quite close, at a good distance for sharing secrets. He simply leaned forward to bring them together. The kiss lingered longer than he meant it to. There was a faint scent of berries on her breath.

  Chenna smiled. “It’s the key to Lady Tamelera’s diary,” she said. “He copied it the night of your Marking.”

  “But how am I supposed to get it away from him?” The words escaped all on their own. This might be his chance to prove to Lady Tamelera that he belonged to her, to get her finally to accept him. But now the snare had entirely closed. Chenna would certainly demand more for an answer to that.

  Sure enough, she held out her hand, palm-upward: the request for permission to touch.

  His skin prickled, but he refused to place his hand on hers. “What will I win, Chenna? I could find a way to take the key on my own.”

  “I admire your courage,” she said. “But the key is in Sorn’s room, in the top drawer of his desk. And I can keep him out of the room long enough for you to be certain you’ll get in and out safely.”

  She knew about Sorn. He was suddenly certain of it. Maybe she’d even been asked for an oath by someone at the Academy—but whether she had or not, she knew Sorn was dangerous, and she knew the value of her offer.

  He didn’t have to take it. He could go straight to Lady Tamelera in the morning and tell her that Sorn had the key; if she asked Sorn for it, he would have to give it to her—

  But if he did that, Lady Tamelera would be hurt, and as the one who had delivered Garr’s ‘surprise,’ he would be responsible. He wouldn’t be sucked into hurting his Lady again.

  Chenna was offering a real way out. And what she asked in return was . . . not undesirable. It wasn’t as though Kiit would care now.

  “One thing, Chenna,” Aloran said. “Your silence on all that happens between us.”

  Chenna raised three fingers. He watched them press the skin over her heart and rise to touch her lips. Then she extended her hand again.

  All right.

  With a deep breath, Aloran placed his hand on hers. Her breath caught in her throat. He reached for her neck, finding the short hair at her nape. She answered by grasping his chest with both hands.

  After that, it was easy not to think, just to undress and let it happen fast and silently. Chenna’s body was all muscle, her movements confident and effective—she seemed to find him as easy to arouse as he found her. She reached climax with a fierce grip and a shuddering sigh, and he came close behind.

  Not until he rolled away from her and she began to dress did he wonder: was this what it meant, to give his love to a mistress’ service?

  “I’ll need four minutes to get Sorn out of the room,” Chenna said. “Don’t move until then. I can give you three more minutes before he comes back; try to be out in two.” She slipped out the Maze door.

  Aloran dressed, carefully counting the seconds. A long-practiced skill—it helped him regain some composure. No point worrying about Sorn, and how Chenna might get him out of the room after midnight. He should think only of what he had to do. Using the Maze door would be a bad idea: he might be seen in the hall, and Sorn’s Maze door would likely be locked.

  When he had counted three minutes, Aloran opened the crescent-moon door. He stepped out into noble territory.

  The utter blackness of the Master and Lady’s chamber was layered with the sounds of their sleeping breath. The Lady breathed a deep gentle rhythm, while the Master struggled and snuffled.

  This would have been easier if he’d thought to pace the measure of their bed. When he reached the corner post, the Master stopped breathing. So did he. His heart hadn’t yet calmed enough—it sounded far too loud—

  Grobal Garr exploded into a gasp, and the Lady’s breathing lost its peaceful pattern. Would he wake? Apnea would explain some of his fatigue and irritability. Luckily, he began to snuffle again.

  As soon as the Lady’s breath resumed its rhythm, Aloran moved quickly to the curtain o
n the Master’s side. He reached behind it, turned the door handle silently, and hesitated. What if he walked in and found Sorn? But his four minutes had already passed, and his remaining two would run out quickly.

  He slipped in.

  The room was unoccupied, lit only by a small lamp on Sorn’s steel desk, which stood against the right-hand wall. Sorn kept a large collection of neatly arranged mementos: a small glass pyramid, two hair combs, several gold-and-silver game pieces, and at least twenty buttons of various shapes and sizes. On the stone walls were taped sketches, portraits, and tiny scraps of fabric. Aloran pulled down his sleeve, so he wouldn’t have to touch the desk directly, and opened the main drawer. Lots of papers, a stack of business cards—no key. He pulled the drawer farther out to check the inside corners.

  Was that it? No, the glint of metal had come from a strange object about the length of his palm—a bolt of sorts, mostly smooth steel but with a tip like a screwdriver. He left it alone. Glanced around. Not enough time to check the narrow file cabinet in the corner. He frowned back at the desk, then realized Chenna might not have meant the main drawer.

  He closed the main drawer and opened the uppermost of the side drawers. There it was: a small key in the near corner. Just in time—

  He stopped himself with his fingers nearly touching it. Fool, fool! If he took the key, Sorn would know his privacy had been breached. Was this a trap?

  Every instinct screamed at him to run. He closed the drawer fast and hurried back toward the door into the Master’s chamber. Sorn might return any second. The handle didn’t turn silently enough, and the smooth-swinging door was too slow . . .

  When at last he got the door shut, Aloran stood for a second in the blackness. The sound of the Mistress’ sleeping breaths was oddly reassuring. He crept back the way he’d come, then systematically stripped the disarranged covers off his bed.

  Never again. Chenna was too close to Sorn. Whether she meant to harm him or not didn’t matter; it was just too dangerous.

  The image of the tiny key stuck like a needle in his mind. Sorn had trespassed. He must not be allowed to keep the key—but there seemed no way to take it back. If he told his Lady about the key, he would be acting as Garr’s messenger; if he took it back himself, Lady Tamelera would guess he had trespassed, the moment she saw the key in his hand. Either way, she would hate him for it.