Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Seatbelts for everyone, sirs,” said Veriga. “In case we have trouble.”

  Nekantor buckled his belt and carefully straightened his trousers beneath it. Trouble seemed unlikely—with Sorn standing in front of them, driving, Chenna driving Fedron’s skimmer, and Veriga on his own skimmer at the rear, they became a wall of safety against the wide moving air of the circumferences.

  “I wish Innis had been taken care of,” Father grunted in his ear as they drove. “But I suppose having a knife to the leg prove fatal would be too much to ask. With assassins, you get what you pay for, and Paper Shadows aren’t cheap.”

  Nekantor straightened his trousers again. There were six suspect families, too little information yet to identify which. He shrugged. “Innis is too strong to fall to such a simple ploy. He’ll have to be killed with more care.”

  “Don’t rush, now, son,” said Father. “Anything could happen in the Eminence’s interviews, and the Round of Eight will show us who our real rivals are. Now is the time for negotiating. I wish we had more assets.”

  Nekantor looked at him. “Assets like your favor to Herin?”

  Father pulled at his chin. “Herin’s a snake. He’d rather bite you than vote for you, so you’ll have to handle your interview very carefully when he calls you up. I mean other assets—if only your mother had performed better, daughters would be a real help. Tamelera herself makes a good distraction, but with Tagaret sick, she looks a fright.”

  “Fah,” Nekantor scoffed. “Mother has no power.”

  Father wheezed a chuckle. “Ironically, mind you, gloves are now the order of the day. The quarantine measures just came down. We’ll have you measured after lunch.”

  Imbati, touching his hands? Nekantor closed his fists tight against his stomach. “We won’t.”

  “Come now, son,” said Garr. “You chose this. I expect you to—”

  “I won’t fail the Family,” Nekantor snapped. “But I will not wear gloves. I’ve survived so far without catching Kinders fever. Arissen Veriga will make sure no one gets close enough to touch me.”

  “Stop!” Arissen Veriga shouted.

  Imbati Sorn braked hard; Nekantor’s body jerked forward against his seatbelt, and he clutched the armrest. Imbati Chenna was slower—Fedron’s skimmer swung ahead of them. A sizzling energy bolt flew from above, striking metal a finger-width from Fedron’s leg. Nekantor screamed; Father grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down, face into his knees.

  Look—the skimmer floor—shoes and dust—

  Nekantor held his breath, quivering. In the corner of his eye, Veriga’s skimmer whizzed past. There was a hum and a crash, and he looked up: a cloud of smoke floated near the top of a nearby building. Out of it fell a weapon, and then a man. The weapon bounced on the sidewalk; the man didn’t. Veriga dismounted and pushed through a startled group of Venorai laborers who had ignored the street closures. He shoved the fallen man with his foot, then wrapped the weapon in a cloth and pocketed it. Then he returned to his skimmer.

  “Let’s continue, sirs.”

  At the end of the block, Veriga chastised a group of Arissen police officers in rust-red uniforms for failing in their security sweeps, then pointed them back in the direction of the fallen man. At last they drove onward.

  Nekantor unfolded himself slowly, slowly. He huddled against Father. The assassin had been killed, so whoever sent him had failed to make his move count. But now he could feel the other Families looming all around, wanting to kill him—and Father had left handprints on his shoulders. He tried to tug his sleeves straight but as soon as the skimmer stopped, Father grabbed him again, dragging him forward into the club that was their destination.

  “Let go of me!” Nekantor cried. He pulled away and straightened his sleeves, his trousers, his vest. Then he took refuge in his watch. The round glass gleamed, and the second hand swept a clean curve. A little better at four seconds. Better still at eight. At sixteen he glanced up and down again. Veriga was talking with Father and Fedron in a low voice, about the assassin—but Society Club Five itself was snug and clean: no front windows to expose him, walls striped in white and brown leather, tables clean and perfectly aligned, each manned by its own complement of Household-trained Imbati. A place suited to gentlemen. And finally Veriga came up behind him. Ah, yes, that was it—Veriga would stop them, make it so no one could touch him anymore. Now he could remember the game they were playing: polite friendliness as a disguise for haggling.

  He put on a smile, nodded, and exchanged meaningless talk with the four men who rose from padded chairs to greet them—all members of the Sixth Family Council. He even nodded benignly at the Imbati table director who was assigned to their private room. Father claimed the head of the brass table and spoke to a small Kartunnen who carried the liquor menu, so Nekantor took the seat to Father’s right and pretended to take interest in the well-being of the Sixth Family.

  The head of the Sixth Family Council sat across from him. He was named Doross, and he moved with power—not a muckwalker, this one, though so obviously scared of Father it was laughable. The rest were followers. Weakest was a man named Enwin, who sweated and fidgeted nervously. That might be turned to advantage.

  “Have you heard the news?” Doross asked, as his manservant set a plate of food in front of him.

  Nekantor looked up—Sorn appeared to be delivering his food to Arissen Veriga. He frowned, but answered, “Innis of the Fifth Family has been wounded. We heard that this morning.”

  “No, no—this is from just before you arrived. Lyaret of the Tenth Family is dead.”

  Lyaret of the Tenth—he was the young but smart one who had taken Gowan’s side against him. Six rivals instead of seven was excellent news. Nekantor put on a frown. “Oh, that’s—”

  “Terrible news,” Father broke in loudly. “What a tragic loss to the Race. Elinda keep him—how did it happen?”

  Nekantor ground his teeth. Gnash Father, did he think he was that stupid? Of course, the sympathy move was required here: every measure must be taken to lull the opponent. Enwin was watching him, so he tried to look mournful.

  “Lyaret’s skimmer crashed,” said one of the other followers. “Lost control on a level rampway.”

  Nekantor sucked in his cheeks. So that was why Veriga had been so careful. He glanced to the side and found the Arissen sliding a plate sideways into his place. Oh, mercy, Veriga had taken bites out of everything! Wrong, wrong—the whole plate had hooks in him before he knew it. A plate must be full or empty. His throat tightened, and his fingers twitched to throw the whole thing across the room. But that wouldn’t serve the game. Don’t look; eat. He ate as fast as he could, trying to stare only at the men until the plate was empty.

  “So?” said Father after they’d endured some minutes of tunnel-hound admiration.

  “The Sixth Family has always had an interest in supporting the First,” said Doross. A lie, but he delivered it well. He touched tented fingers to his lips. “The First Family doesn’t lack for votes in the cabinet. Neither would they if our Family gained another seat.”

  What—the muckwalkers deserved another seat, did they? “Hm,” Nekantor said. “You’re certainly ambitious.”

  Under the table, Father’s hand gripped his knee, trying to grind his bones.

  To the men Father laughed. “My son is famous for his directness, as I’m sure you already know. I’m afraid it’s impossible for us to grant such a request—at least, at this time.”

  “What about an alliance?” said Doross.

  Servants came around, took up plates, and replaced them with tiny glasses full of red liquor. Delivered one to his place also—but not red. It was something else, as if just because he was fifteen, he didn’t know how to drink. He did—Benél knew that. The thought made his blood feel hot. What Benél knew . . .

  He reached for the glass, but Arissen Veriga slid it aside, away
from him. Nekantor frowned.

  “We’re listening,” said Father, and took a sip that left the edges of his lips red.

  “Enwin here has a daughter, Della,” said Doross. “She’ll turn seventeen soon.”

  Daughter? Nekantor rolled his eyes. “How does that help anything? I won’t reach my Age of Choice for more than a year.”

  Father’s hand clamped on his leg again. “A betrothal could be arranged,” he said. “Is the girl attractive? Healthy?”

  Enwin cleared his throat—an unmistakable sound of fear. And see how he sweated, bending down. He brought up a small painted portrait of the girl: long copper hair, green eyes.

  “Lovely,” said Father with a smile.

  Yes, that was the next required move, but Nekantor hesitated. Fear should be used, but what was this fear on Enwin’s face? Fear that the exchange would be made? Or that it would not?

  “Nekantor,” said Doross, “she would bear you good sons.”

  Sons.

  Sex leapt into his head, twining itself around his mind. Benél’s mouth, Benél’s arms pinning him, moving him, every pull of that perfect, delicious power—

  What in Varin’s name did he want with a vapid, useless girl?

  “I won’t do it!” he cried. “There has to be something else.”

  “Nekantor!” Father barked.

  “No!”

  Arissen Veriga spat explosively, splattering liquid across the table. “Gnash it all!” he shouted. “Sweet Heile’s tits—poison!”

  Nekantor stumbled out of his chair and backed against the wall.

  Father was on his feet—he slammed both hands down on the table, and the men scrambled away from him. “What in Varin’s name do you think you’re trying to pull?”

  Disorder—he had to keep to the pattern! Nekantor closed his eyes tight. See the lines, see the dance: a poisoning attempt by the Sixth Family wasn’t part of it. “Not them, Father,” he said. “It wasn’t them—couldn’t have been.”

  “Nekantor’s drink,” said Veriga. “Imbati Sorn, find the Kartunnen who brought the corisi. Figure out who had contact with him. Imbati Chenna, get the table director. I need someone to drive me to the hospital, right now.” He thrust shaking hands into his pockets and pulled out a vial of something that he ran about his mouth, then swallowed. “I have six minutes.”

  The running and rushing were awful. Nekantor put his back against the leather wall and stared at his watch, breathing fast and shallow. Twelve seconds—Imbati Chenna came back with the table director, and they took Veriga away. One minute: Imbati Chenna returned, then disappeared through the door Father’s Sorn had taken. Veriga had told him the next moves, and he clung to them. Father stamped and yelled at everyone. No deal with the Sixth Family now, and they would have to get home without Veriga.

  How could they get home without Veriga? At least five more Families might have designs for his death, and he needed a new bodyguard—how could he get a new bodyguard if they couldn’t get home without Veriga? The questions whirled inside his head. The second hand on his watch was slower. Count the seconds.

  “All right, Nekantor? Nekantor!” Father gave an exasperated bark, then lowered his voice, soft and hoarse, close by him. “That’s the best we can do for now, son—look at me.”

  He didn’t want to look. He glanced up, and down again, and clenched his teeth. Father and Fedron were both here. Father looked pale, but his Sorn was behind him now, and Fedron’s Chenna, too, stood behind her Master.

  “How do we get home without Veriga?” Nekantor asked. Slow the questions; count the seconds.

  “Son, I need you to do as I say.” Strange bursts of intensity in his voice betrayed panic trying to take over. “We have to leave now. The longer we stay, the more likely someone finds out we’re here and Veriga is not.”

  Nekantor’s guts wound tight. “Beasts smell blood,” he murmured. They had to move; he needed Benél. Where was Benél?

  Father wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him away from the wall. No choice now. They hurried to the skimmers, and Nekantor huddled close to Father, buckled himself tighter, tighter, trying to stop his pounding blood from drawing beasts. He kept his head low, breathing hard. Three of them; only two Imbati bodyguards.

  “Drive fast,” Father said.

  Drive fast.

  The skimmer hummed and took off, rocking them around the turns—sickening, and worse because his head was down.

  “Too close, too close,” Father was muttering. “If we get out of this, we need more than a bodyguard. I’ll get a tunnel-hound.”

  Nekantor’s stomach lurched; he panted and fought it down. “No tunnel-hounds, Father. I—no tunnel-hounds, they make me sick.”

  “How stupid are you?!” Father exploded, then controlled himself. “Don’t endanger a man when you could have an animal instead—what will you do, stop eating?”

  “Yes. Yes. I won’t eat.” How could he, knowing that the next glass, the next plate might kill him? “I’ll only eat where it’s safe.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  The skimmer swerved suddenly, and there came the hum and sizzle of weapon bolts. Nekantor pressed his cheekbones into his knees. The floor of the skimmer, shoes and dust; it stopped his breath, but if he lifted his head—

  Someone hissed in pain, but the skimmer kept moving, and finally the sounds of shooting faded.

  The skimmer jerked to a stop. The others must have stayed with them, because Fedron was swearing loudly.

  “We should consider ourselves lucky,” Father growled. “Take Chenna across to the medical center. It doesn’t look bad, but you’d better make sure. Nekantor, get up, we’re here.”

  Here? Nekantor checked the corner of his eye: black silk, Imbati legs moving past the skimmer. The Conveyor’s Hall. His knuckles were white, clenched on his trousers, and didn’t want to come open. Opening them hurt; so did sitting up. Just a little farther and he’d be safe. His fingers shook, undoing the seatbelt. The Conveyor’s Hall was full of Imbati, moving in regular patterns. Fedron and his Chenna had gone, and it was only Father and his Sorn now.

  “Come on, Nekantor,” Father said, and to the Imbati nearby, “You, you, and you, with us, now.”

  They walked fast between the buildings but found no one lying in wait. The Household left them inside the entrance of the east wing, and Sorn checked each curtain while they walked. When the suite door finally closed behind them, it was so satisfying. Nekantor felt his chest relax; he pushed into the sitting room and took a deep breath. Never again—that must never, never happen again!

  “Serjer!” he called. “Contact the Eminence’s Cohort—I must have new bodyguards. Tell them to send three, right away.”

  “New bodyguards?” Pyaras had been sitting in one of the chairs. He stood up, frowning. “What happened? Where’s Veriga?”

  He hadn’t expected Pyaras, but his cousin would be useful now. “What did you learn about Arissen?” he asked.

  Pyaras frowned. “Why should I tell you?”

  “I need a new bodyguard. You’ll help me choose.”

  “When the sun rises in Pelismara,” Pyaras snorted. “Tell me what happened to Veriga!”

  Father was out of breath, stumping in behind him. “Veriga’s been—poisoned. They took—took him—to the Residence medical center.”

  “Heile’s mercy!” Pyaras looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I—I’d better go see him.”

  Nekantor blinked at him. “Why, in Varin’s name?”

  “Because I’m nicer than you!” Pyaras dashed through the vestibule curtain, and the front door clicked open and shut.

  “He’s a fool,” Nekantor said.

  “You’re the fool,” Father snapped. He paused for breath. “You threw away a vote today. You could have had a fine partner. But instead you acted like a comp
lete idiot. We won’t get a better offer from the Sixth Family.”

  Three votes instead of four. Only three. Nekantor closed his fists. “You don’t know that.”

  “What kind of assets do you think we have?” Father demanded, red-faced. “We have no pretty young ladies to offer up in the name of getting this job done. We don’t even have Tamelera to flirt with those rock-toads. No one in this house is any use anymore.” He started coughing and sat down in one of the guest couches. Sorn stepped quickly out the dining room door and returned with a glass of water. Father drank, coughed, drank again, and sighed, “Much better.” But anger still clouded his face.

  Nekantor frowned. There was a way through this game, into the center. It would require a new bodyguard, and Pyaras would help with that. Something lurked in the assassination attempts—a pattern for sure, so he’d have to get more information on today’s attacks. Father was right about one thing: success would require as much currency in the Society as they could muster. But he’d learned something else today, too—that partnerships were a form of currency. And if that was the case . . .

  “Father, Aloran has no partner yet,” he said. “He could be an asset.”

  Father’s face changed: anger to interest. He set down his glass. “That’s better, son. That’s the kind of thinking we need. Sorn, fetch me Aloran’s contract.” Then he smiled. “Nekantor, maybe your mother can be useful after all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Master and Lady

  Clean. Aloran pulled on a fresh shirt, and it felt so good—clean at last. He owed a serious debt of gratitude to Serjer for handling extra foot assignments in the last two days, not to mention for bringing him these clothes; also to Keeper Premel for sending in meals to young Master Tagaret’s rooms; and not least to his Lady for allowing him to take a shower in the young Master’s own bathroom. He started combing back his hair.

  “Aloran, Aloran—come quick!”

  He dropped his comb on the marble counter and ran out. Lady Tamelera stood with quivering hands stretched out to him.