Aloran looked him in the eye for a split second before following her down a corridor on one side—Tagaret felt it as gratitude. Even safe inside these walls, he got a chill watching his bodyguard walk away.
“Tagaret of the First Family, I’m so pleased you could come.”
Tagaret turned. A door had opened leading farther into the house, and a man stood in it, wearing a smile but wringing his hands nervously. He had cheerful wrinkles around his eyes, and curly nut-brown hair going to gray; a female manservant stood behind his shoulder. He must be Della’s father, Enwin of the Sixth Family. Intriguing yojosmei melodies floated in from the space behind him.
Tagaret bowed. “No more pleased than I am to be here, Enwin, sir,” he said. Alive . . . He cleared his throat before his relief could turn into an inappropriate laugh. “Is there to be music?” Della had said something about music, hadn’t she, when they’d spoken before about meeting Kartunnen?
Enwin chuckled—friendly, but still nervous. “Yes, Della told me you loved music. She and her sister worked hard to convince me you would enjoy visiting us today. Come this way.”
“Of course.” That was strange. How had he not known that Della had a sister?
Enwin led him through a sitting room and along a corridor whose windows gave out onto a courtyard garden, with real climbing vines on the walls, silver-lit by a shinca trunk that pierced upward. Ahead, the melodies beckoned. Finally, Enwin opened a door, and music burst over them.
Such music! He’d thought it must be a group, but it was two people: they sat with their backs to him at a yojosmei made of exquisitely carved wood. All four of their hands and feet moved with joyful abandon. For an instant, Tagaret startled—was that Della, playing? But though the girl had the same gorgeous copper hair, this person was far too small, maybe only nine or ten. A gray-coated Kartunnen sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder, so they swayed together to the music. And to one side, clapping along, stood a Lady with an elderly manservant, Della and her Yoral—and Kartunnen Ryanin?
Tagaret managed not to gape. But Kartunnen Ryanin himself, visiting a private home?
“Tagaret of the First Family,” said Della’s mother, still clapping. “Come in. I hope you’ll forgive us for starting early, but Liadis keeps her own time. May I offer you something to eat or drink?”
“Ah—mm, no, thank you, Lady,” said Tagaret.
Della cast him a longing glance that struck his heart and set it racing. Today her dress was a deep blue-green color that made him think of his own ocean coat.
“Sir,” said Imbati Yoral. “Would it please you to meet our guests?”
“Yes, Yoral, thank you.” This whole room was wondrous and impossible. Live plants grew everywhere; three or more wysps floated overhead amidst mobiles of gold and crystal that hung from a sculpted plaster ceiling; and a young Grobal Lady appeared to have received the blessing of Heile just like a Kartunnen. Also, he could walk right up to Della and not strain too hard to keep his eyes away from her because it was so easy to stare at the unpainted face of Kartunnen Ryanin.
“You may shake Ryanin’s hand if you wish,” said Lady Pazeu.
Tagaret offered Ryanin his hand, incredulously. Music buoyed him higher and higher. “Well, certainly. Such a pleasure to meet you in person, Ryanin. I love your work.”
The famous composer had a lined face and dark mysterious eyes that spoke of inner inspiration—but he had a very warm smile. “I’m honored, sir.”
He was honored, too. Ryanin’s fingers brought masterpieces like The Catacomb to life—who would have imagined he’d ever actually feel their grip on his own hand?
“This is just amazing,” Tagaret said. “I confess, it’s not at all what I expected.”
“You’re kind,” said Enwin behind him. “Most would call it eccentric. Or disgusting.”
Tagaret shook his head. “I don’t think so. How in Heile’s name did you decide to train your daughter in music?”
“We didn’t decide,” said Lady Pazeu. “She did. Liadis breathes music like air. She would die without it. Della, why don’t you take Tagaret to the yojosmei and introduce him.”
“All right, Mother.”
He turned toward Della instinctively—her voice was like water after a long thirst. Della came to him, smiling; he walked eagerly beside her, her shoulder only inches from his arm. They went to the yojosmei where the two were still playing.
The Kartunnen at the yojosmei looked up, and his eyes widened in alarm. He had long, reddish-blond hair, and a burn scar on his left cheekbone. It was the boy—the same one he’d spoken to outside The Catacomb.
“You?” Tagaret said.
The Kartunnen boy sat open-mouthed in shock.
“Vant,” said the girl beside him. “Play, play—why did you stop?”
Della flitted around and embraced her sister, her hands on her shoulders and her cheek beside her hair. “Liadis, look. Someone’s here to meet you. This is my friend Tagaret. Tagaret, my sister Liadis. She’s just turned fourteen.”
Fourteen? She was so small . . . Tagaret turned away from the Kartunnen boy and searched for an escort to greet, but couldn’t find one. There were two Imbati caretakers standing by the far wall, but—
“Tagaret, Tagaret, I’ll remember that,” Liadis exclaimed. “Nice to meet you, Tagaret, do you sing?”
He had nowhere to look but directly at her—and instantly understood why he’d never heard of her existence. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was her eyes, or her turned-up nose, or the long lips, smiling broadly over unusually small teeth. A defective, Father would call her, too weak in her blood for civilized society. Then it hit him like a blow to the stomach: Father would say that a mental defect had Lowered her, or she would have no interest in music.
He would never be like Father.
He smiled at Liadis. “Nice to meet you, too, Liadis. I’m sure I don’t sing as well as you’d like. But I think you play the yojosmei beautifully.”
“This is my yojosmei,” Liadis said, grinning infectiously. “Daddy bought it for me. And sometimes Ryanin and Vant come to play with me, and the wysps like it when we play, and come to visit. Vant has a Grobal name, did you hear that? And Ryanin has very big hands. And Della dances, don’t you, Della. Tell him what we did yesterday.”
Della kissed her sister’s hair, then turned her green eyes straight to his, as though she had permission. “We played and danced for an hour, Tagaret. You should have seen it.”
“I can imagine it,” he said fervently. “As if I’d been here.” One sister with fingers and feet dancing upon the yojosmei, the other twirling under the leaves, the gold and crystal, with the wysps lending their surreal light.
Della blushed. She was so beautiful he almost reached out to her. But though the rules surrounding Liadis were obviously different, they couldn’t be that different.
“Vant, you haven’t said anything,” said Liadis. “Tagaret, Vant is Ryanin’s apprentice. Vant, say hello.”
“Hello, sir,” said the Kartunnen boy, in his strikingly cultured voice. “Liadis, I’d prefer to play.”
“Oh, yes, let’s play,” she agreed. “Let’s play our Catacomb duet.”
Without another word, they began to play—something that was obviously an arrangement of the orchestral Catacomb for yojosmei, so dark and complex he scarcely believed it could be played by young people. Liadis rocked forward and back. Vant was more still, but his head was bowed, his eyes closed, his hands and feet moving with force and drama as if the music grew straight out of his soul.
One of the wysps near the ceiling drifted down and moved in a lazy spiral over them. In the spell of its light, only the four of them were here: Della, unescorted, gazing straight into his eyes in a way that made him quiver, and her Heile-touched sister shoulder to shoulder with a Kartunnen who for some reason had a Grobal nose to match his Grobal name.
“Young Tagaret,” Enwin said quietly. “On these days, the concert never ends. Vant and Ryanin take turns so Liadis doesn’t wear them out. She will sleep all day tomorrow. Perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the house?”
“Forgive me,” said Tagaret. “I don’t want to leave the music.”
“What if I take him?” asked Della.
He stared at her. Could he be so lucky?
“Oh, do let her, darling,” Lady Pazeu said to Enwin, taking his arm. “This kind of opportunity comes so seldom.”
Della’s father pinched his lip, but then he nodded.
Yoral took Della on his arm and walked out into the corridor. Heart racing, Tagaret beckoned to Aloran and followed. They entered the silvery garden courtyard, which smelled intriguingly of dirt and flowers. Della didn’t seem inclined to carry the tour any further; she sat down in a brass chair at a small table. Tagaret joined her. The shinca cast its aura of warmth against his back. His knee was so close to hers . . .
“Liadis,” Della said. “She’s why.”
Tagaret glanced up at Yoral, who stood behind her. The stern Imbati nodded permission, so he looked back at Della with relief. “She’s why?”
“Why my father studies Lowers,” Della said. Her fingers played nervously with the edge of the brass table. “You can see that, can’t you? It’s not muckwalking, really. It’s about—”
“It’s about the music,” Tagaret agreed. “Your sister is blessed of Heile, that’s clear.”
Della looked at him seriously. “Not just the music, though. I mean, it’s not wrong for me to care for my Yoral’s happiness, is it? Nor you for your man’s. The Grobal Trust is for all of them.”
For Aloran. Tagaret looked over his shoulder. Aloran’s eyes were lowered. Even having just saved his life, the young Imbati was too respectful, too shy to be breached. That didn’t mean he didn’t deserve to have someone care for his happiness.
“I wonder,” Tagaret said. “I know it’s a strange request, but might I speak with your Yoral for a moment? About a personal matter?”
Della blinked in surprise. “Really? Yoral, would you permit it?”
Yoral didn’t look much startled; but then, he was Imbati. “If I may ask that Aloran briefly watch my Mistress, then I am willing,” he said.
“I will,” said Aloran.
The other side of the shinca seemed a good enough place so as not to take the older servant too far from his Lady. Tagaret took a deep breath. Yoral looked up at him with obvious curiosity.
“It’s not about Della,” Tagaret said. “It’s about—” He lowered his voice. “Aloran.” Then he explained, carefully, about his mother and Aloran, about the key, and the anonymous note. When he was finished, Yoral considered for several seconds.
Finally, he murmured, “Sir, how long has young Aloran worked for your mother?”
“Three days or so.”
Yoral nodded. “That explains some of it. Household rank often counts for less than experience, and in particular, a student Marked out of the Academy can be subject to political manipulation by those more established in the Maze, if you understand me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I think I do.” Of course, Sorn would be just like Father.
“Thus, it would be impossible for him to take anything directly from the senior servant against his will. Ideally, the return of the key should be accomplished by a member of the family who could bear witness to the senior servant’s possession of it and leave him free of blame. Your mother’s Aloran obviously has his wits about him, young as he is.”
“But why wouldn’t he just tell my mother?”
Yoral inclined his head to one side. “I can only guess he fears somehow to approach her directly. Perhaps the key touches on a highly private matter where, given his awkward relationship with her, he is uncertain of his rights.”
A shudder ran down Tagaret’s backbone. “A highly private matter where my father was spying.”
Yoral bowed. “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.” Then he raised his voice. “Might I request that you return to my Mistress, and send Aloran to me for a moment?”
Tagaret stared at him. Return—and send—a question rose in his mind that was almost a scream, but he didn’t dare utter it for fear Yoral might change his mind. “Right away,” he said. At the brass table, Della had obviously heard the request; her mouth was open, her breast rising and falling visibly.
“Aloran, if you would,” Tagaret said hoarsely. Aloran nodded and left them.
Alone.
Was it he who first reached for her hand, or she for his? Oh, gods, it didn’t even matter—her fingers were so soft, so warm, and absolutely perfect! Her knee leaned against his, and her eyes lifted, and he fell into their green paradise.
“Della,” he whispered.
“Tagaret . . .”
“If I survive this—if I could actually be Heir—nothing anyone could say would matter.”
She kissed him.
He clung to her hands as ecstasy flooded his body and washed the entire world out from under his feet. It could not have been long enough, even if it had lasted his entire life—when her sweet lips finally left his, and her hands pulled away, he found tears in his eyes. Yoral and Aloran stood by with understanding, and pity, on their faces.
He wouldn’t dare tell anyone about this—not Reyn, not even his mother.
He had to survive Selection. For Della.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ambush
Aloran waited outside the bathroom door, listening to the swirls and gurgles of his Lady in her morning bath. The risk of sending the note had been worth it: his trespass appeared to have escaped Sorn’s notice, and Lady Tamelera had changed in the last two days, ever since young Master Tagaret had taken back her key. The difference was subtle—she still didn’t permit him in the bathroom—but he’d passed all of yesterday with no random dismissals at all.
Della’s Yoral had told him he had a new champion, to whom he would owe his gratitude for any change that came.
He would risk his life happily if it meant saving young Master Tagaret again.
Beneath the bathroom door came the rush that meant his Mistress was emerging from the water. He imagined her drying herself unaided, and dressing in the underwear and slip he had laid out for her. The hair dryer hummed. And she should open the door right about—
Lady Tamelera opened the door. “Aloran?”
He stood as straight as he could. “Yes, Lady.”
“Please help me into my gown this morning and brush my hair. I’d like to look my best for the Announcement of Candidates and Round of Twelve event.”
Blessing of Mai. He bowed deeply. “Yes, Lady.”
She approved the dawn gown when he brought it to her. It was an unusual piece: bright yellow orange at the lower hem which he guided down over her head; pale gray blue at the neckline which he carefully slid up over her shoulders. He fastened a button at the small of her back which was almost green—each button faded subtly until they became pale blue between her shoulder blades.
Lady Tamelera took a seat in one of the lounge chairs and shook her hair down over the back. Its red-gold mass fell heavy and damp over his fingers. Applying the brush to it felt so perfectly appropriate—he poured himself into every stroke, making this simple duty a symbol of his gratitude. See how I serve you, Lady. See me . . .
“Aloran,” she said.
“Yes, Lady.”
“Yo
u know, how you saved Tagaret from an assassin?”
He kept the brush moving. “I did not capture the man, Lady. I would have been more pleased to save the young Master from the one who sent him.”
“Nonetheless, you did well,” she said. “And in another way, too—getting Tagaret to return my key.”
Aloran flushed all the way to his feet. Apparently, his involvement was not a secret after all. She was kind to sit him safely behind her before saying such a thing.
Lady Tamelera turned her head; her hair shifted through his hands, and he glimpsed her profile—so very Grobal, yet admirably self-possessed in spite of her years of difficulty with the Master. “You are loyal to my interests, Aloran,” she said. “I was unfair; I see that now. I’d like to show you how grateful I am, and I believe we have time before the Family gathers.”
Breathe. Brush. “Your word is honor enough, Lady. I do my duty gladly.”
“I insist. Please take me to the clothing shop Tagaret told me about.”
A smile escaped to his face. Aloran let the brush stop. “Yes, Lady.”
They went by skimmer to save time. Today he had leisure to notice the shopkeeper’s name, Kartunnen Jaia, written in gold script on the front window. Jaia recognized him and kept glancing at him even as she greeted his Lady.
“Welcome, Lady. How may I please your tastes?”
“I would like to purchase a suit for Aloran, who saved my son’s life here two days ago.”
Strange; she still didn’t call him my Aloran. But he was thrilled enough just to be here with her, seeing the mannequins for their clothing and not their potential as shields.
Kartunnen Jaia bowed. “Yes, Lady.”
“Something innovative, I think. More than just black—embroidery would be nice, if you have it.”
“Of course, Lady.” Jaia turned to him and smiled with her red-painted lip. “Imbati, sir, would you please come with me?”
Aloran followed her to a rack in the back corner of the shop. To judge by her sudden air of modesty, these must be personal designs—a far better quality than he’d ever choose for himself. He picked one with a black jacket that glimmered blue and retreated to try it on. Before he had put on more than the trousers, however, Jaia tapped at the metal door and her hand appeared above it, holding another suit.
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