Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

“Thank you, Benél,” said Father.

  “No,” Nekantor said. “Benél, help me in. Don’t leave me.”

  “Sir?”

  “All right.”

  Benél led him by the back of the neck into his rooms. Nekantor stumbled over to his bed. Benél locked the door, and when he turned, his face glowed—better than when the gang won a fight, better than when they’d escaped the whorehouse unscathed.

  “You did it, Nek. I couldn’t have done it, but you did it.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Hey, if it were me, I’m not sure I’d be able to stand, either, but everything’s all right.”

  Everything was not all right. “Benél, come here.”

  “What? Do you have a plan? Do you need a drink?”

  Nekantor shook his head. “You. I need you.”

  Benél came closer, staring with his mouth slightly open. When he got close enough, Nekantor grabbed his arm; Benél dropped on his knees beside the bed. Nekantor found his hand, lifted it, looked at it. Strong hands; Benél was strong, and his hands could chase away shadows; they could hold the world together. Benél’s hands, Benél’s lip, Benél’s arms, Benél’s mouth—

  “Nek,” Benél said, breathing hard. “I’m not going to—I—you don’t want me to treat you like, well, like I was treated in my last gang. Before you helped me get on top.” He coughed and looked away. “I just want—you’re amazing, and I want to, to be with you. That’s all.”

  Nekantor took a breath, lifted Benél’s hand, pressed his face hard into it, feeling its power put his mind back together. Benél gave a cry and grappled him, strong arms pinning both his hands above his head, strong body crushing down on him. He struggled an instant, but Benél only held harder until he couldn’t move, couldn’t think—

  Couldn’t think! Ahh, perfection!

  Relief flooded through him: a bliss as sharp as ice. Benél’s mouth pressed hard and pushed into his, and he pushed back until the air broke in.

  “Is—” he gasped. “Is that—all?”

  Benél’s face was wet with tears, his voice almost a growl. “No.”

  “Please,” Nekantor said. “I’m yours, Benél. I’m yours!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Vigil

  Aloran woke, half-falling out of his chair. There had been a sound . . . He caught a breath and straightened, trying to orient himself. The young Master’s room, dimmed for nighttime—the Lady sleeping in a chair beside the bed—his medical kit on the bedside table, open—and young Master Tagaret tossing in his sheets, panting and muttering while his body tried to go up in flames.

  The horrified ache in Aloran’s throat started again, and tears rose in his eyes. He longed to fight, to sacrifice himself so that Tagaret might live—as if now that he had stood by Lady Tamelera’s side, he received the right to love him as she did. He blinked back his tears, and made another check: pulse steady, fast but not dangerously so. No sign of the hives he’d suffered earlier in the evening, which was a mercy. His temperature, though, was a frightening six degrees above normal.

  Aloran checked his watch. Enough time had passed that a fourth dose of medication wouldn’t tax the young Master’s organs. He shifted him onto his back, and the boy roused, opening bleary eyes.

  “Nekantor, don’t break my lock this time,” he said indistinctly. “Why would you walk on only the black tiles?”

  “It’s Aloran, young Master.”

  “Imbati Aloran,” murmured Tagaret. “My mother thinks he’s a man.”

  “Hold still, young Master. This will make you feel better.”

  He steadied Tagaret’s arm and delivered the shot, wishing he could give him not just medicine, but some of his own strength to get him through this unharmed.

  A soft knock.

  Was that what he’d heard? Why wouldn’t Serjer just have come in?

  Aloran disposed of the needle, removed his treatment gloves, then walked silently to open the Maze door.

  Kiit was standing behind it.

  Aloran blinked, trying to make sense of her. Her anxious face was newly marked, and she wore treatment gloves just like his own. She carried a paper. Belatedly, he gaze-gestured questioning.

  Kiit took two steps back into the Maze.

  Aloran glanced over his shoulder, and reluctantly stepped across the threshold.

  When she spoke, her whisper was scarcely above a breath. “Update on the epidemic.” She placed the paper in his hand.

  “Thank you.” But she could have delivered this paper to Serjer. Too tired for manners with her, he simply asked. “Kiit, did you need to see me?”

  Kiit’s eyes flickered over his shoulder. What did she see there? Nothing either of them could have imagined, despite every lesson, every warning. She gestured to her own forehead.

  “Just—I’m sorry, Aloran.”

  How could he even respond? What came out was, “Congratulations. . . ?”

  She winced and nodded. “I just needed to tell you. I understand now.” She turned and loped away down the Maze hall.

  Aloran exhaled. He returned to the room, peering at the note in the dim light, then discovered Lady Tamelera was awake in her chair, gazing at him. She wore a white nightgown, and her face still bore traces of her earlier tears.

  Aloran bowed to her. “I’m sorry, Lady,” he said. “These are the victims of the epidemic.” He placed the list of handwritten names in her hand.

  She stared at it for a moment, then spoke in a broken whisper, dropping the paper on the floor. “Forty people, Aloran. Forty of us down.”

  “Grobal Reyn of the Ninth Family?” he asked, remembering the young Master and his friends at the Ball. “Grobal Fernar of the Eleventh? Grobal Pyaras?”

  She swallowed hard. “All of them.”

  Aloran’s stomach clenched. “Lady Della of the Sixth Family?”

  She frowned. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see that name.”

  “Blessing of Heile,” he breathed.

  “But ten people have died since this afternoon.”

  Aloran closed his eyes in grief. When he opened them again, Lady Tamelera was still looking at him. She was pale and graceful in the dim light, and her face showed fear as clearly as if she were an unmarked child.

  “Five years,” she said, fresh tears running down her face. “Five years. I just got him back . . . if I lose him, I’ll die.”

  The desire to sacrifice himself near-strangled him. “Not Tagaret,” he vowed, his voice quavering like a stranger’s. “Not if I can stop it. I’ve failed you enough.”

  “Oh, Aloran, no . . .” She fell silent, staring at him, long enough that he flushed and turned away. He should check the young Master again. He put on a new pair of treatment gloves. When he touched the boy’s neck, Tagaret turned his head, muttering incomprehensibly—the sound of it squeezed his heart. Checked his temperature, though, and it was slightly less; his heart relaxed somewhat to think the medicine was working.

  “I remember—” Lady Tamelera said. She paused for a long moment. “I remember, when he was born.”

  Aloran looked at her. She was gazing at her hands, her fingers wound tightly in her lap. Would she truly confide in him?

  “He came three weeks early, but my Eyli knew. I wanted her to deliver him, but she insisted I go to the medical center. She was right. The labor was long, and he was born weak—they took him from me for treatment before I’d had more than a single glimpse of his face. I lay there for an hour, prostrate with exhaustion while the doctors treated me, wondering if that was all I would ever see. If all my efforts had been in vain and we would both die.”

  Aloran gave respect to her silence, but after a time she flashed him a glance—a clear request for response. “They were not in vain,” he said.

  “No. They brought him to me at last, and I could see he had grown stronger.
I gave him the Tagaret name-line, for strength in adversity, and I promised him we would both survive.” She looked up into his face. “I was seventeen years old.”

  “Ohh—” The sound escaped him on a swell of pity too strong to contain. Imagine her, a mother before she was even as old as Kiit . . . He raised one forearm to cover his face and began a breath pattern before he put it down again.

  “Yes? Please, Aloran, tell me.”

  He couldn’t refuse to speak, but he didn’t dare look directly at her. He confessed softly to his knees, “I want to make the same promise, Lady. To him, and to you—with all my heart.”

  “I know you can’t.”

  “Not yet. It’s still too early to know—” If he’ll be damaged. If he’ll die. He couldn’t say it.

  Lady Tamelera hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Hearing her pain was bad enough; knowing he’d made it worse was torture. He took off his treatment gloves and slipped from his chair onto the floor, pressing his forehead into the carpet at her feet. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have spoken.”

  She dragged in a breath. “Aloran, rise,” she said. “If you never speak, how can I hope to understand you?”

  She wants to understand me? His heart split, one half fearfully insisting he was unworthy of such a gift, the other dizzy with gratitude and devotion. She had commanded him to rise, so rise he must—but Sirin only knew how he could look at her now. He picked himself up slowly.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Lady?”

  “Of course.”

  He walked away from her, into the young Master’s bathroom with its floor of black and white tiles. At the marble basin he ran hot water over his hands and scrubbed them, longer than he needed to. The fire embroidered on his jacket kept her with him anyway.

  Somehow, this wasn’t at all what he had dreamed of when imagining a Lady who understood the love of mistress and servant. Kindness, yes. Consideration. Not this sudden overwhelming generosity.

  But he must not leave the young Master unattended. He wet a cloth with cool water, returned to the room and put on new treatment gloves before laying it on Tagaret’s head. The young Master gave a deep sigh, but for the moment he appeared to be sleeping. It was easier to look at him than to risk looking at the Lady.

  Lady Tamelera spoke quietly. “When I was alone in the medical center, I was afraid for Tagaret, but also for myself. Afraid of what would happen if he died, and I lived. Garr was dark-haired and handsome at forty, but—busy. When I became pregnant, he changed. He treated me gently, brought me gifts, and told me I was beautiful . . .” She sighed. “He cared. I knew in my spine that his care would vanish if I went home alone.”

  Aloran bent his head. No doubt she was right.

  “Garr has always been powerful, untouchable,” she said. “His anger is terrifying. He could demand anything from me, and I have no power to refuse.”

  Aloran glanced at her cautiously. “There are laws . . .”

  “Laws are small comfort. He makes me feel so helpless, and I can’t escape him. I’m ashamed to say that I have always responded to my situation with fury. This has had some unfortunate, unintended consequences. Aloran, look at me.”

  He did, and found her leaning toward him. He tried to keep his eyes lowered, but her gaze caught him and wouldn’t let go.

  “My thoughtlessness has placed you in the same circumstances. Faced with my cruelty, you have responded far more gracefully than I ever did to my partner’s. You wouldn’t dare say to me what I really deserve to hear, so I will: when it comes to someone so gentle, so considerate, who holds my life and that of my son in his hands—Mai strike me if I can’t do any better than Garr.”

  Aloran couldn’t move. Blood rushed into his face and burned in his cheeks.

  Lady Tamelera stood up abruptly and faced the public door as if she might leave, then appeared to change her mind and walked past him into the young Master’s bathroom.

  With her gone, he could find a breath to begin a pattern. Surely this was a deliberate kindness, taking her blazing presence away so he could breathe again—she understood him better than he’d thought. He checked his watch: still too soon for any further medications. Checked the young Master’s temperature: it was a full degree down now.

  Tagaret roused at his touch and cried out. “Mother—Mother, where are you? I’m so thirsty—Mother!”

  Lady Tamelera flew out of the bathroom as if to rush to his side, but jerked to a stop two steps away. “I’m here, Tagaret,” she cried, shaking her hands helplessly. “I won’t leave you—I promise, we’re going to be all right!” She turned to Aloran, her eyes desperate.

  Aloran slipped his arm under Tagaret’s back, lifting him gently. There was a glass of water on the bedside table; he brought it to the boy’s lips. Tagaret drank—actually drank, the most positive sign he’d seen in all this night of fear. When he laid him down again, he touched his hand to the boy’s cheek before he realized what he was doing. For a split second he froze, astonished at his own presumption, but then he completed the caress.

  What was he for, if he could not be his Lady’s hands?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Next Moves

  Almost ready to go and play.

  Nekantor circled his rooms. He could still feel Benél: a disturbance in the room, a vibration in his body. He touched, checked, straightened, then stopped at the mirror and combed his hair, fixed his clothes, fold by fold. Now the disturbances were hidden from prying eyes, but he could still feel them: they were marks of power, and they made him stronger. He had to be strong to stay in the game for the First Family—he couldn’t afford to show weakness again.

  The important thing was understanding the pattern. It hadn’t disappeared when the candidates left the stage, only changed, and that change was perfectly easy to explain. Just remember that, and there would be no need to panic. The line of twelve up on stage had become eight above, and four below. The eight Families left above would do anything to ensure victory for their candidates, and would pursue assassinations. The other four were supplicants, offering votes in exchange for favors.

  The First Family had Fedron and Selemei’s votes, plus Father’s to make three. The Fifth Family had lost the Eminence Indal, but with two cabinet members, they still had two votes in hand. The Third Family had one cabinet vote, plus the Eminence Herin to make two. And then the rest, for a total of sixteen. He must watch carefully and anticipate the next moves.

  The assassination attempts had already begun. Innis of the Fifth Family had been attacked this morning—not killed, unfortunately. The thought of going out made Nekantor’s neck feel tight. Made the room feel wrong. One more circle: he touched the door, the desk drawers, the chair; checked the window shade, touched the bed, tapped the bedside table, one-two-three. Touched the wardrobe with its cool drawer handles, and the bathroom door.

  Out there, at least he’d have the Arissen man to protect him. He’d be safe with a Selection bodyguard. Yes: time to go find Arissen Veriga.

  He took a deep breath and went out, but the drawing room was empty. The sitting room, then. He shoved through the doors.

  Arissen Veriga was at the gaming table. He looked all wrong—black hair uncovered, and wearing brown silk? How could he be wearing brown? But then, searching Veriga’s animal-strong body, Nekantor found the answer: a stripe of cuff peeking from his sleeves in perfect Cohort orange. That was it—he was in disguise, for going out today.

  Something was still wrong, though. Veriga was playing keyzel marbles with Pyaras.

  “Pyaras, they told us you were sick!” Nekantor said. “What are you doing with my Arissen? Stop it this instant.”

  “Hello, Nekantor,” Pyaras said. “I did have a fever last night, but I feel so much better today that my father had a doctor come check me. You’re not the only one important to the future of the First Famil
y.” The infuriating baby shot a sly grin at the bodyguard. “I just knew you’d barge in and cut us off.”

  Arissen Veriga laughed. “And this was shaping into a good game, too.”

  “How dare you!” Nekantor snapped. “Show some respect.”

  “Yes, sir.” Veriga went instantly serious.

  Pyaras kept grinning. Nekantor wanted to slap him. If only Benél had been here, they could have schooled that boy.

  Arissen Veriga casually held out a silver coin. “Pyaras, sir,” he said, “this will pay our wager.”

  Pyaras stared at the coin dropped into his hand. “You’re paying me real orsheth? How much is this?”

  “That’s an eight, sir.” Veriga chuckled. “Haven’t you seen one? I can show you a one, and a four, if you like.”

  “Stop it,” said Nekantor. His fingers twitched in disgust. “Pyaras, money is for Lowers.”

  Then Father walked out of his office, followed closely by Imbati Sorn. “Nek, ready to go?” he rumbled. He looked at Pyaras, and then at Arissen Veriga. “What’s going on here?”

  “Pyaras is fraternizing with my bodyguard,” said Nekantor.

  Pyaras turned red. “I’m here for Tagaret,” he said. “I just want him to be all right, and Tagaret told me—he told me I should talk to Veriga! It was the last thing he did!”

  Father huffed himself up. Nekantor held his breath, waiting for the surge of power, but it never came. Father’s shoulders sagged and he waved a hand dismissively. “We don’t have time to bother with this. Tagaret’s still alive so far—Pyaras, talk to Tamelera if you like. Nekantor, Veriga, let’s get on our way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nekantor smiled as Veriga came to his side. His own bodyguard—ah, it felt like power. Suddenly, the vestibule and the door were no barrier at all. Time to give the supplicants their hearing.

  Grobal Fedron met them at the Conveyor’s Hall, where Imbati brought skimmers. Veriga saluted but blocked their way. He checked the skimmers thoroughly before anyone got on. Father huffed in first; Nekantor slipped into the space beside him, while Fedron’s skimmer came around on the right.