Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Lady, what is it?”

  “Tagaret’s sweating—he’s so wet. Is he all right?”

  Could it be? Heart beating fast, Aloran donned a new pair of treatment gloves and sat by Tagaret’s side. Lady Tamelera breathed anxiously behind him, leaning so close her long hair brushed the back of his shoulder. He made another check.

  The boy’s temperature had come down by almost five degrees. Last night, even strong medication had barely reduced it by two. Tagaret was sodden with sweat, but he was breathing deeply now. Was it safe to hope?

  “Lady . . .” When he turned, he found her gazing down with such pleading eyes that he spoke in spite of himself. “I think it’s good news.”

  “Oh, Aloran!”

  But if she were to be disappointed, the responsibility would lie on his shoulders. He gaze-gestured apology, despite her ignorance of the Imbati codes. “Please, Lady, be careful,” he said. “He’ll be weak, and until he wakes, we can’t test him for damage.”

  Lady Tamelera gulped and looked aside. “Well, maybe he’s lucky he got sick,” she said softly. “When I think of what they would have done to him, in the name of making him Heir—maybe the damage would have been worse.”

  At that moment, the public door opened. Lady Tamelera straightened fast.

  It was the Master himself, with Sorn at his shoulder, and young Master Nekantor beside him. The Lady took two steps forward as if to block their way in. Aloran made himself busy with a towel, drying some of the sweat that soaked Tagaret’s hair and clothes, but he still kept a cautious eye on them.

  “Hello, Garr,” Lady Tamelera said.

  “Dear, how are you?” Grobal Garr rubbed his chin. “I thought we should bring you the latest news—there were three separate attempts on Nekantor’s life this morning.”

  The Lady made a low sound of discomfort. “That’s—not unexpected,” she said. “Nekantor, darling, I’m glad you’re all right.”

  Young Master Nekantor shrugged. “The Families are fighting this Selection very hard,” he said. “We just now received word that Menni of the Second Family jumped out of the path of a skimmer, and Gowan of the Ninth Family escaped death because the two men assigned to kill him started fighting each other for the privilege.”

  Aloran blinked in disbelief. The Grobal were terribly determined to kill each other. No wonder it was such a struggle keeping them alive.

  “Those young men were fortunate,” said Lady Tamelera. “But I know you wouldn’t come in here just to tell me that. What do you want?”

  “No temper, now, dear,” said the Master, coming close to her. “How is Tagaret doing?”

  “Better.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful!” He put an arm around her stiff body and squeezed. Then he gave young Master Nekantor a confidential smile that sent chills down Aloran’s back. “If we’re lucky, he might even become an asset.”

  “An excellent one,” young Master Nekantor agreed.

  “I see how it goes.” The Lady took a step backward, away from them, and crossed her arms. “Garr, tell me what you want.”

  Aloran swallowed. Only days ago he would have found her pose aggressive, the intensity of her voice terrifying. Now it didn’t feel powerful enough. Why hadn’t he realized that the Master might come in when Tagaret’s condition improved? Why couldn’t he have dressed his Lady more formally than in a simple gown and house robe? He assumed bodyguard’s stance behind her shoulder, but nothing could be done about the fact that he hadn’t tied his hair back. Sorn had noticed it—the senior servant was watching with a glint in his eyes.

  “I think I’ll sit down,” the Master said.

  Sorn appropriated the Lady’s chair at the foot of the bed, and the Master huffed himself down in it, gesturing above his shoulder. Sorn placed a heavy paper, dense with print, into his Master’s hand, and the glint in his eyes grew to a vengeful smile.

  Aloran couldn’t move. Heile help him—Sorn hadn’t retaliated before because he’d been waiting for this.

  The Master said, “Just sign right here for me, dear, that’s all.”

  Tamelera’s whole body tensed. “Nicely done, Garr. But Aloran is mine. I suppose now that you’ve got your paws on his contract, you’re not concerned that I got my key back. But you haven’t changed anything. The Courts will uphold my right.”

  His contract? Sorn had used the key to steal his contract out of the Lady’s diary? Aloran almost clenched his fists, and had to breathe himself back to calm. She was right: laws are small comfort.

  “This is for the good of the Family, Mother,” said young Master Nekantor. “We already know the Sixth Family is seeking an alliance . . .”

  “And other opportunities will present themselves,” the Master agreed, “even if the Sixth proves a lost cause. I’m sure Aloran will be very attractive to someone. We just need your signature to permit the arrangement.”

  Lady Tamelera’s harsh breathing recalled him to his duty. Aloran placed his hands firmly against her back, as he had for young Tagaret when they came under attack in the street. Lady, I am here to defend you.

  “I refuse,” she said.

  “Of course you do, dear,” said Grobal Garr. “That’s because you don’t understand how important this is. Families come together during Heir Selection. It’s not me; any of your old cousins in the Eleventh would demand the same. I’d prefer not to have to forge your signature, but we don’t have a lot of time. You may as well leave off the histrionics.”

  She’d been taught no breath exercises to keep calm—Aloran ached to hear her trying so hard. Suddenly she turned to him with agony in her face. “Aloran,” she whispered. “What do you want? Would you be willing to—” her voice failed.

  Aloran blushed. What he wanted made no difference, but she asked—she actually asked. “I will abide by whatever you decide, Lady, and be content,” he said. “I have pledged my love to your service. Partnership is only obligation. Love is the jewel locked in the heart.”

  Lady Tamelera gasped as if he’d hit her.

  Oh, by Sirin and Eyn, why had he said that? He wanted to fall at her feet, but didn’t dare move with the others watching. I’m sorry, Lady, I’m sorry . . .

  “Give me the contract,” Lady Tamelera said, in a faint voice. “And a pen.”

  The Master chuckled. “That’s better, dear. Sorn?”

  Aloran swallowed as Sorn came closer. The senior servant placed the paper in the Lady’s left hand, the pen in her right, and took a single step back.

  She stared down at the paper.

  Don’t sign it, Lady. What he wanted might not matter, but he knew already what she wanted, and vocation demanded that he make her wishes his own. Should he object? He would be sorely punished. What would young Master Tagaret think, when he learned that his father had pushed his mother to this while he lay by?

  Lady Tamelera breathed so fast he feared she might faint. She set her back to Grobal Garr and turned to him instead.

  “Aloran, take this.” She pushed the contract into his hand. “Under no circumstances are you to give it back, either to Garr, to Nekantor, to Imbati Sorn, or any Imbati marked to either one of them, now or in perpetuity. Swear it.”

  “I—I swear to uphold your command, Lady.”

  “Varin gnash you to bits!” roared Grobal Garr, surging to his feet. “What is this behavior?”

  Lady Tamelera didn’t move, but closed her eyes instead. “Garr,” she said. “Please don’t wake Tagaret. He’s been very ill and needs to sleep.”

  Grobal Garr growled.

  “Fah,” said young Master Nekantor. “I told you she was useless.” He stalked out the door. The Master gave his Lady a dangerous look, then lumbered after him. Sorn went last, pulling the door silently shut.

  Suddenly, Aloran realized he was almost in his Lady’s face. He stepped away, folded his contract into a poc
ket against his back, and bowed to the floor.

  Lady Tamelera paced the room as though it were too small to contain her. Once, she paused at the head of the young Master’s bed, and murmured, “Oh, Tagaret, you’ll never believe—” But then she broke off and didn’t speak again.

  Aloran waited, head down. Dread crept upon him. They had both made a terrible error. He’d always known that an arranged partnership lay in his future—the Master might have bad judgment in such matters, but surely, defying him was not worth the risk. How much of the Lady’s defiance had truly been her own, and how much had been her concern for his wishes? What terrible presumption he was guilty of, allowing her to act as if he mattered! Because of him, she’d presumed to deny the Master his will.

  Nothing good ever came of presumption.

  “Lady,” he said. “I beg you, please don’t ever consider me again.”

  She didn’t answer. After a minute’s silence, he heard the service call bell and Serjer’s answering voice.

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Aloran could use your help, if you have time. I’d like to see Tagaret in some fresh clothes, and the bed needs to be changed.”

  Aloran stood up, but Serjer had seen him in his abject position, and approached with gaze-gestures of concern. Aloran sent back silent reassurances and gave him a pair of treatment gloves for safety. Together, they moved the bedside table out of the way, changed young Master Tagaret into a clean nightshirt, stripped the bed around him, and redid the sheets without causing him too much disturbance. As they tucked a new sheet over him, the young Master smiled in his sleep. That smile leapt to Aloran’s own face before he could stop it.

  Serjer paused. He wore the same smile in his eyes. “Aloran, sir,” he whispered. “We shall never be able to repay you for this.”

  “It is my duty, Serjer,” said Aloran.

  “Nevertheless.”

  It was difficult to be alone with his Lady after Serjer left. Realigning the bedside table didn’t take long, and young Master Tagaret needed less tending, which only made it harder to escape Tamelera’s gaze when she addressed him face-to-face, rather than allowing him to disappear safely behind her shoulder. Aloran tried hard to find his old silence, but since she now appeared to think nothing of speaking to him directly, both courtesy and service demanded that he reply. At last he bowed to her.

  “Lady, would it please you to have me brush your hair?”

  Her blue eyes lit. “Yes, please. Would you style it as well?”

  “Certainly.”

  Thank Heile for hairbrushes. Returning behind her at last, Aloran felt the weight of attention lift from his shoulders. He began with short strokes, to chase away the tangles, and shifted to long strokes once all the knots were gone. He nudged her toward a style made popular in the Erin Society, which would require numerous small, interwoven braids.

  “There were two days like this in the last Selection,” she remarked after a time.

  He separated out another of her tresses and divided it with a comb. Fortunately, this wasn’t an issue he could speak to.

  “Lady Selemei once told me that the day after the Round of Twelve is always bad,” she said. “More of the Families perceive that they have a personal stake, and there are only a few free votes to go around. Nobody would ever resort to killing when there were only two candidates left, because no one wants to start over—but last time, there was that second day, after the Round of Eight.” She shifted, as if tempted to look at him. “I still shudder when I think of it—they killed my cousin Dest, and almost killed Garr, too.”

  Aloran shook his head. Grobal Dest of the Eleventh Family already held an uncomfortable place in his memory, but . . . “The Master?” he asked.

  “Yes. He was leading the First Family Council at the time. They had a twelve-year-old candidate who was eliminated early, and Garr went out to negotiate with Herin of the Third Family. Garr and I had been fighting because I hadn’t achieved another pregnancy, so he left me at home with the boys—Tagaret was only six, Nekantor four and already a struggle. When I heard they had come under attack . . . that was the first time I ever wished Garr might die.”

  Aloran winced. He tried to immerse himself in the regular motions of braiding.

  The Lady sighed. “Of course, when I learned that he’d been shot, I hated myself for thinking it. I took Garr to the medical center, and he cursed Fedron’s Chenna all the way there. It wasn’t her fault, though. She’d only just been marked. He hadn’t taken enough people, somehow—I have no idea where Sorn was.”

  Aloran’s fingers stopped. He forced them to start again and tied the braid off. She had no idea where Garr’s Sorn was, on the very day that Grobal Dest was killed? He could practically see Master Ziara’s stare penetrating all the way from the Academy. He hadn’t sworn, but this was a perfect opportunity for him to investigate—and yet, he had sworn to keep the content of their conversation under oath. And he mustn’t deceive his Lady . . . He swallowed. “Lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “The Master’s Sorn, he—he frightens me.”

  Lady Tamelera didn’t answer at first. After a time she sighed, “Oh, Aloran. He frightens me, too.”

  Aloran started another braid. “If you’ll forgive me, I think it’s because he’s so much like the Master. I don’t mean to say he shouldn’t be his master’s man . . .”

  “My Eyli used to say that.” Tamelera nodded. “Sorn is his master’s man—and he is, Aloran. In so many ways.” She shuddered. “I hate his eyes.”

  “Lady, the Gentleman’s training does teach a person always to watch.”

  “Perhaps, but not like that. They’re like two halves of the same twisted, ambitious man.” She shrugged. “I suppose, whatever Garr achieves, Sorn shares the benefit, so why should Sorn ever leave his side if he hasn’t been sent?”

  “Do you think—” Aloran’s throat tightened, but he went on anyway. “Do you think on that day, he might have been—sent?”

  Lady Tamelera sat bolt upright and turned to face him. The unfinished braid pulled out of his fingers.

  He dropped his chin to his chest. “Lady, I’m sorry.”

  “Aloran, look at me.”

  He tried. He couldn’t bear to raise his eyes above the level of her mouth.

  “I had the same thought,” she said. “Especially after we spoke to the police. Garr and Herin both told them that Sorn had been with him the entire time, but Garr has a scar on his arm that says otherwise. I should have said something, but . . .”

  “It would have been presumption,” Aloran murmured.

  She nodded. “I still should have said something. They questioned several Venorai in connection with the murder, I’m not sure why—something about the weapon. Garr still keeps the records in his office files. Dest was a cousin, and a decent man. Once he was gone, Garr shut my family out one person at a time until only Lienne and Doret were left. But then we left for Selimna, and Lienne Fell—and Doret was only ever Garr’s friend.

  “I should have said something, even if I wasn’t sure it would make any difference. Even if I knew the consequences.” She leaned slightly to one side and raised a hand to her half-finished hair. “This looks beautiful so far. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

  “It’s nothing, Lady.”

  “Aloran, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course, Lady.”

  “May I have a pair of your gloves? If I had gloves, maybe you and I could care for Tagaret together—would it be safe enough?”

  “It would be safe enough.”

  Tamelera smiled.

  * * *

  —

  It was during the second time that they cared for him together—well after Aloran had finished his careful braiding and wound the whole into a stylized knot at the nape of her neck—that the Master returned. This time he came without young Master Nek
antor, only with Sorn behind his shoulder.

  “Tamelera,” he said.

  Now they would see the consequences of their earlier defiance. Aloran stood, gathering himself to defend his Lady as best he could—but instead of readying her anger, Lady Tamelera shrank. She drew away from the young Master’s sleeping form and removed her gloves without touching their outside surfaces, precisely as he had instructed her.

  “Yes, Garr?” she said.

  The Master said nothing, and Lady Tamelera froze, as if caught in the frigid exhalation of a crevasse. Suddenly she said, “Aloran, you are excused.”

  Aloran gulped in shock. Excused, now? She was even avoiding his eyes—an ache sank all the way from his throat into the pit of his stomach. “Lady—young Master Tagaret?”

  “He’ll be fine for a little while.”

  He couldn’t reasonably plead with her, though he wanted to. “Shall I run any foot assignments, Lady?” he asked.

  She flicked the tiniest glance in his direction. “Yes, please. While I speak to Garr for a few moments, please just fetch what we discussed earlier.”

  “Yes, Lady.” As he turned away, he could feel the Master’s eyes, and Sorn’s eyes, burning on his back; every step he took tried to pull him back to her side. He stepped out into the Maze hall and shut the door behind him.

  Alone in the dim light, he breathed a pattern against his dismay. She trusted him now, didn’t she? She knew she was in trouble, so why hadn’t she let him stay? And now she wanted him to fetch what they’d discussed?

  Merciful Heile—was she standing alone against Garr and Sorn so that he could investigate the murder?

  A terrible gift, but he could not refuse it. While he still wore treatment gloves, he would leave no fingerprints. He walked swiftly to the Maze door of the Master’s office and let himself in. Garr had obviously spent late nights here—the desk was covered with a mess of papers, and a couch against the wall opposite bore a rumpled sheet, and a dent in the shape of the Master’s heavy body. Lady Tamelera had said the information was in the Master’s files, so he turned to the metal cabinet in the corner and began sorting through. A minute passed too quickly. How long would he be safe in here?