Benél puffed himself up. “You’ll answer to the Speaker himself if Arbiter Erex doesn’t receive this message.”
The Arissen frowned.
So, now the reasonable move. “We don’t have to go in,” Nekantor said. “Tell the Arbiter about the message, and he’ll come out if he agrees it’s important. We can speak to him right here, inside the archway.”
He waited, counted seconds. One of the Arissen ran off through the passage. The other allowed them to take four steps into the shelter of the arch.
Erex appeared, a silhouette against the light of the ballroom, coming closer with his Imbati woman behind him. He was too weak in his blood to run, but maybe they’d beaten Sorn down here after all, because he looked worried—see how fast he walked? When he saw them, he frowned.
“Boys, what’s going on? Young Nekantor, where’s your father? The candidates are lining up—where in Varin’s name is Tagaret?”
“Tagaret has Kinders fever,” Nekantor said.
“Nekantor!” Erex exploded, then controlled himself with effort. “Behave yourself, young man. This is no time for joking.”
“Sir.” Benél’s voice broke. “I swear on the crown of Mai. He’s not coming. Speaker Garr is in a state.”
In a state— Nekantor blinked. Father wasn’t the only one in a state. Suddenly, the wrongness in the Hall clicked into sense. “Erex, you’ve seen the candidates,” he said. “You know some of them aren’t who they should be. They’re substitutes, when the others have Kinders fever. So does Tagaret. We saw him fall. We want to know who you in the Council have to take his place.”
Erex went pale. He swayed, and extended one hand toward the wall. His Imbati woman stepped close to his back and held him up.
Nekantor understood instantly. There was no one. Garr, Father of a thousand plans, had prepared no one but Tagaret. Outrageous! What would become of the Family’s reputation now?
He whirled to Benél. “Benél,” he said. “What I said to you. The First Family needs a candidate—this is your chance. Our reputation depends on it.”
Benél gaped and stammered. “N—no, Nekantor, no.”
Nekantor almost screamed at him. “But you have power!”
“Not without you—I couldn’t be alone up there.”
Nekantor looked around, frantic. On the other side of the arch, against the light of the ballroom, the line was already forming. Tagaret was meant to be first, but instead his place was empty, and Menni of the Second Family was there, and the Eminence’s fourteen-year-old protégé, Xemell of the Third Family, with the others indistinct figures behind them. The broken pattern wound his chest tighter, tighter. The moment Menni set foot on that stage, the entire Pelismara Society would see the gap. The First Family would be struck an irrevocable blow.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll do it.”
“You’ll—?” said Erex. He sucked breath, but then gained some fire. “You’ll do absolutely nothing of the sort. When everyone sees what’s happened, they’ll understand. We’ll just delay the Announcement of Candidates.”
“They’ll understand?” Nekantor cried. “Oh, they’ll understand, gnash it—they’ll know the First Family is weak! We’ll have no chance at all in the Selection. The Family’s reputation will never recover!” He closed and opened his hands. He could feel the blow looming like an enormous stalactite about to fall. It would crack the whole pattern of the Twelve Families, disarrange everything so it could never be fixed. No, no, no!
Erex put his hands on his hips. “There’s no way I’m going to let you—”
“Oh, aren’t you?” Nekantor glanced toward the Arissen guards, now far enough that if he was careful, they wouldn’t overhear. He had information on Erex: the skin-tightening sight of Erex naked with a Kartunnen whore. He lowered his voice. “Erex, you’re in charge here. The Council answers to you. They rely on you to safeguard the reputation of our Family into the next generation—but they might not be so willing if they knew the truth. About what kind of muckwalker you are.”
Benél hissed in a breath.
Erex gulped. He glanced over his shoulder; Menni of the Second Family had started to walk toward them. Erex pressed his hand against his chest and took a step backward.
So he had him. “Contaminating our children with the taint of Lowers,” Nekantor sneered. “And with the mark of a fever house? You’ll see. I’m Garr’s son, too. I’ll give the First Family something to be proud of.” He shut his mouth; the others were too close. He strode past Erex and his manservant and took the spot in front of Menni of the Second Family.
“Nekantor?” Menni said. “What’s going on? What happened to Tagaret?”
“He’s not coming,” Nekantor said. “Let’s go.” He lifted his head and set his shoulders back: a dare, but Erex stood silent and let them pass. His Imbati woman stayed close—one hand strong beneath her Master’s shoulder, the other light on his wrist.
The lights in the Hall of the Eminence were bright, and the stage steps resonated riches under his feet. They walked up into full view of the faces. No more commotion—the room hummed with power, and here on the stage no one was missing now, the pattern unbroken. The First Family was still first.
The Eminence’s throne had been moved to the far side of the stage, before the stairs. That was different, and irksome, but fully explicable. The Eminence Herin, poised there with his white-and-gold drape pinned around his shoulders, was the gatekeeper. Only the chosen Heir would be able to pass him, at the end of this game.
Yes, the game. Nekantor’s heart raced. There were places set for the candidates to stand, and he walked to the number one marked on the shining wood, then turned back to evaluate the First Family’s adversaries. Beyond Menni and Xemell was Ambrei of the Fourth Family, not quite nineteen yet. The Fifth Family had Innis, aged thirty and almost too old for Selection; his nose was so noble that his entire face sloped back from it. The next man, Vos, was Sixth Family and therefore inconsequential.
“Nekantor!” a voice hissed. Farther down the line, Gowan of the Ninth Family leaned forward, scowling. “What in Varin’s name are you doing? You’re not fooling anyone—get off the stage.”
The Seventh Family’s boy winced at that. Herm—he was only twelve, so such weakness was to be expected. The sympathy of the crowd would be his greatest advantage. Between him and Gowan, Sangar of the Eighth Family, a stocky sixteen-year-old with dark hair, bent and whispered in his ear.
Lyaret of the Tenth Family was almost as young as Herm, but he picked up fast and followed Gowan’s lead. “Account for yourself, First Family.”
Nekantor shrugged. “I don’t think I’m the only person here whom nobody expected.”
Sure enough, every eye turned to the last two candidates. Eleventh should have been Fernar, the muscle from Tagaret’s gang, but instead it was a man almost as old as Innis and Vos, already losing hair. Who was he? Ower, that was it, age twenty-five. And beside him from the Twelfth Family stood Yril. Nekantor wanted to laugh. He’d told Benél that Yril would be here.
“Yes, but we belong here,” Yril said venomously.
Nekantor only smirked. No more posturing. Abandoning Yril to the Arissen had been just the beginning. He turned away from the others and looked out over the crowd. Twelve roped boxes, milling but nicely contained. Those places where excitement bordered on chaos were actually pockets of weakness and suppressed fear. That same fear might hide inside the minds of the candidates beside him, to serve the First Family’s advantage. The cabinet members began straggling into their seats below—and there was Father finally, in a huddle with Fedron, Erex, and Lady Selemei at the base of the stairs.
Erex wouldn’t stop him. Even Lady Selemei the subversive wouldn’t touch him here, not in front of everyone. Fedron would follow whatever Father decided.
But Father wasn’t harmless. He could ruin everything.
F
ather walked closer. Each step slow, heavy as stone; his face gray and haunted, his eyes turned up on the stage. On him.
Don’t touch me, Father. I know what power is. I know everything you taught me, even the things you didn’t. This is for power, Father. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.
“Don’t touch me,” he murmured.
Menni of the Second Family glanced at him, curious, wary.
Nekantor shut his mouth. With every step Father took, his throat tightened, his fingers ached, and his skin crawled. To look at his watch would suggest impatience. To check or touch would show weakness. It was all right. It had to be all right. This was where he belonged, here at the head of the pattern, showing the First Family’s strength. Father would never hurt the First Family. He must not!
Father stepped to a microphone in the cabinet seating area. His deep voice made the air shake. “I’m proud to introduce the candidates for Heir.”
Nekantor held his breath. Say my name, Father. Show them that the First Family sees no emergency, that we feel no fear. This is for us, and for our power.
“From the First Family, Nekantor, fifteen years old,” Father said. “From the Second, Menni, twenty-one years old. From the Third, Xemell, fourteen . . .”
Nekantor didn’t hear the rest. Tension exploded into ecstasy, a single perfect moment whose vibrations chased away every obligation to pattern. They were saved! The order of the world would remain right, and now the game could begin.
He could play games as well as anyone.
The whole Hall applauded. The surge of power felt like the heat of a fire.
At the side of the stage, the Eminence Herin stood and raised a hand to them in welcome. “Candidates,” he said. “We will hear your initial statements.”
Father looked up at Nekantor.
He knew what that demanding stare meant. Oh, yes—he’d been there for all the preparations, listening hard even when Tagaret was not. Father had composed Tagaret’s statement, all idiotic fancy phrases about celebration and the future and the strongest youths of the Race. Father had told them over and over what to expect. Be graceful, be noble. The Round of Twelve is a simple matter, where the cabinet will smile and nod at one another and vote based on the natural quality of the Great Families. Today, everyone would desperately want a simple matter—the wrongness in the room told him that, as if it were speaking in his ear. Everyone wanted to ignore the fear, to confirm what they already knew.
That meant everyone was vulnerable. Even Herin. Even Father.
Nekantor straightened his cuffs and stepped forward. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society, this is not a day for celebration. All you have to do is look at the twelve of us to see the entire Race is at risk. Kinders fever has invaded our ranks, and why? Because of contact with contaminated Lowers. This can’t be allowed to continue.”
He scanned the Hall: Herin was frowning, Father open-mouthed, the entire place seething with fear laid out into the open. He stamped a foot and raised his head. “We are the Grobal Race! But if we can’t stop this behavior with better law enforcement, our carnal weakness will mean our deaths. I want to know how the other Families propose to win our future against this threat.”
The entire Hall was silent. See, how he’d struck the blow just right. When he stepped back, Menni of the Second Family looked at him differently. The glow of real fight shone in the man’s eyes. Menni turned away and faced the crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “this may indeed be the question of our age, but isolation is not the answer. The Kartunnen might carry the vector of our destruction, but they alone can train the doctors who ensure our survival. The cause of this epidemic is not fraternization behaviors as such, but an illness endemic in our population. It can be defeated only through our support of medical advances.”
“Wait,” Xemell of the Third Family exclaimed. “I object to this entire line of discussion! It’s inappropriate to the Announcement of Candidates—this is a time for introductions, not debate. You choose to talk of death when we should be giving honor to the Race and to the noble pursuit we’re all entering.” He crossed his arms and glanced at the Eminence Herin.
“Yes, indeed,” the Eminence replied, nodding. “Thank you, Xemell.”
Nekantor gritted his teeth. Herin shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t his turn to speak—but he had power, which would protect him from reprisal. Herin knew Garr was watching, waiting to collect a debt. He knew he couldn’t afford to let the First Family gain control.
“Ambrei,” Xemell said. “Let’s get this event back on track.”
But Ambrei shrank and didn’t say a word. Count the seconds: one, two, three, four— Ambrei stood and let the silence unravel him. A defeat, already? Nekantor started to smile, then discovered that Innis of the Fifth Family was staring at him, smiling back.
This man, now—this man was dangerous. The set of Innis’ noble face showed the knowledge to manage power; he knew the significance of the move he was about to make. Nekantor closed his fists, with a shiver climbing his back. He could see the scales balanced in Innis’ mind: on the one side, the Third Family and the Eminence; on the other, the First and Second Families. Opportunities on either side, for the one who knew how to use them.
Innis turned his smile outward to the listening crowd. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “Nekantor and Menni would have you think that their positions are opposite, but I don’t think our solution to the problem of Kinders fever need be as simple as either suggests. We bear a Trust: we are responsible for our people, and we must lead. We can enforce stricter penalties on Grobal who transgress—remain aloof for safety, and still bring our will to bear on the University.” Underneath it floated another message: I accept the game you’ve chosen, because I know how to play.
Nekantor sucked in a breath. A desire to fight swept over him, and his fists shook with excitement. An enemy Innis might be, but he was a good enough ally for this battle: after that, each candidate stepped willingly into their circle. Sixth and Ninth Families stood with Menni, speaking of cooperation with medicine; Eighth and Eleventh spoke in support of law enforcement. The young boys from Seventh and Tenth distinguished themselves by invoking the Grobal Trust—Herm reciting the part about ‘the responsibilities of our exalted station’ in a childlike manner that drew sighs from the crowd, Lyaret with just enough talk of economic policy that it became clear he used his youth as a deliberate strategy.
Nekantor watched Yril’s gaunt, determined face for signs of weakness, but when it came to his turn, Yril demanded restitution from the Kartunnen with such passion he almost shook. A fascinating way to wring advantage out of his humiliation at the whorehouse—how far it would convince the cabinet was another question entirely.
The cabinet members huddled below, muttering to one another. An Imbati with a bureaucrat’s tattoo slowly moved from one to another, entering their rankings into a handheld ordinating machine. Tension reached out from them into the crowd around, stringing one person to the next, binding nerve to nerve in a web of anticipation. Nekantor watched, tense from fingertips to heels. Enough power in this room to shiver all of Varin when they made their decision. The hum of their talk rose finally, and Father moved to the microphone.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society,” he announced, “We honor all the Great Families for offering us the best of their blood. Will the following four candidates please step back and descend from the stage.” He paused, shaking his head.
Nekantor bit down on a scream. He ground his teeth and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
“Herm of the Seventh Family,” said Father. “Vos of the Sixth Family. Ambrei of the Fourth Family.” He gulped visibly. “Xemell of the Third Family.”
“What?!” Xemell shrieked.
Nekantor gasped. Triumph was a slashing knife, severing him from the tension that h
ad bound the room together. The web broke, and the crowd dissolved into a roiling din, full of cries of shock. He whimpered and turned his back on it. Panting, he tried his watch, but won only a scant few seconds before the Eminence himself strode past him, crackling with fury, following his own defeated cousin off the stage.
“Congratulations, Heir candidates!” said Father’s magnified voice. “You may now step down. We look forward to seeing you again in the Round of Eight.”
Nekantor could not step down. The pattern that had sustained him ran away like sand from under his feet. He panted and shook.
At last Father’s arm came, wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s all right, son,” he said. Then, to others nearby, explained, “He’s overwrought—what he’s had to go through, you know, after the shock of Tagaret’s collapse . . .” The arm closed tighter and pulled him stumbling forward. The ground dropped—stairs. Father’s voice a low rumble in his ear. “I’ll tell you, Nek, I didn’t know you were capable of that. Xemell’s failure gives us a chance at the Third Family’s cabinet vote, and the Heir’s vote as well—it was a coup.”
“Nekantor!” Benél’s voice.
Benél was here. Nekantor gulped in air and looked up.
Benél was smiling. “You were amazing!” he cried.
That smile was solid when nothing else was. Nekantor grabbed Benél’s arm. “Benél—stay with me.”
“We have to get you home, son,” Father said. “Arissen Veriga is here to escort us.”
Nekantor shook his head. “Benél has to come with us.”
“Sir,” said Benél, “I’ll help you get him home.”
Father shrugged. “Well, this once.”
Step by step, they walked. Nekantor held Benél’s arm, and Benél smiled, and Arissen Veriga and Father and Sorn walked with them. Step by step, pieces of the world built back up beneath his feet. It had really happened. No matter the price, the First Family had been saved, the Third Family’s bid for the throne cut off. The door to their suite built itself into place ahead.
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