Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  Nekantor snorted. Eminence Herin would convince his pet cabinet member, Palimeyn, and that would bring him to five votes. “I’ll bet you a thousand orsheth that in the Round of Eight, the Third Family votes for me.”

  Arissen Karyas let out a laugh that made Sorn twitch.

  Nekantor looked at her. “We wouldn’t want to lose you any money, would we, Karyas? I imagine you have friends who might not want me to let them down?”

  It was the right move: Arissen Karyas’ eyes glittered, and she smiled. That meant he could use Karyas to get to her friends, and use those friends for other purposes.

  Father ruffled like an annoyed kanguan. “Confident about our interview, are we?”

  “Irrelevant, Father,” Nekantor said. “Now’s the time to plan what comes next—eliminating my competition. Or are you still going to tell me it’s not time for that yet?”

  Father huffed himself down onto a couch. “Hmph,” he grunted. “Say it were—who do you propose I ‘eliminate’?”

  “Innis of the Fifth Family.”

  Father raised his eyebrows. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong, son. You must not understand the appeal of youth and health—our biggest risk now comes from the Ninth Family.”

  “Gowan?” Nekantor laughed. “He’s as harmless as Tagaret. A joke compared to Innis.”

  “Well, we’ll see who wins in the next round. But until you have your own assassins, we’ll do it my way.”

  Gnash Father. Nekantor ground his teeth and cast a glance toward Arissen Karyas, who was looking between them with her sharp brown eyes. She was no assassin. But she was an asset, particularly now that he was running his own game. “Come, Karyas,” he said. “We’re going to discuss this with Benél.”

  Benél would give him the relief he needed; and then he could start figuring out how far Karyas and her betting friends could be played.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Ninth Family

  Alive!

  Tagaret hurried to Mother’s room, light-headed with relief so terrible he could scarcely speak. Life raced in his blood, as if it could blaze from him like sunlight. Maybe something divine really had come down with them from above—something neither Nek nor Father could extinguish, no matter how they tried.

  Oh, sweet Heile, life!

  “Mother!” he cried. “Mother, Reyn’s alive!”

  Mother stood up from her writing desk. She ran to him in a rustle of carnelian silk, and her arms came around him, warm and tight. “Oh, my darling, that’s wonderful!”

  “He wants to see me today, before the Round of Eight events. May I borrow your Aloran? Please?”

  Mother hesitated. “Well . . . how about we both come with you? We can be ready for a social call quite quickly, can’t we, Aloran?”

  Aloran bowed behind her. “Yes, Lady.”

  Tagaret grinned his thanks. “So can I.”

  Dressing was easier now. Today, the Tagaret in the mirror looked almost normal, despite the deathly reminder provided by his white gloves. He met Mother and Aloran in the vestibule, and they walked out together. Excitement and gratitude lifted him so high that he hardly needed help at all. Aloran steadied him only once, while he climbed the spiral stairway.

  Imbati Shara answered their knock with a deep bow.

  “Welcome, Lady and young sir,” she said. “Please be aware that young Master Reyn has just returned this morning from the medical center. He is free of contagion but remains weak due to seizures during his illness.”

  Tagaret gulped. Fear sank deep into his stomach.

  “We understand,” Mother said warmly. “It’s kind of you to welcome us at such a delicate time, and we don’t wish to tax him. Perhaps I might chat with young Lady Iren while Tagaret pays his personal visit.”

  “Your consideration honors us, Lady,” said Shara. She seated them in the sitting room and disappeared into the back.

  “Thank you, Mother,” Tagaret whispered. Mother always knew what to say.

  Mother smiled and squeezed his arm with her soft-gloved hand.

  The caretaker reappeared with Iren, who seemed delighted at the prospect of a visitor. She wore a gown of amethyst over which her blonde curls fell to her waist; she giggled shyly at Mother when Shara seated them together.

  Finally, Tagaret was able to stand and follow her back to Reyn’s private rooms. He breathed deep, trying to loosen his anxiety. But whatever he’d been through, Reyn had suffered much worse. He must be careful, and gentle, and not show horror if his friend were somehow changed.

  Reyn lay with his bed-curtains open, gazing at the portrait of his parents, which had been moved to the wall beside his head. He’d always been fair, but now his skin looked pale as steam.

  Tagaret took his gloves off and softly touched his arm. “Reyn?”

  “Mm?” Reyn turned his head. “Ohhh. Tagaret . . .”

  Thank the Twins. Those were just the eyes he knew—clear, undamaged, and filled with their familiar steady sympathy. Tagaret fell on his knees beside the bed and embraced him as best he could. “Reyn,” he said, with tears in his throat. “Reyn, thank all the gods—you’re really all right.”

  Reyn’s hand came to rest lightly against his back. “Tagaret, you’re . . .” he said, and took a breath before continuing. “Better.”

  He hadn’t realized how much better until this moment. He kissed Reyn’s forehead. “You’ll get better, too,” he said. “You will, I promise.”

  “I heard,” Reyn said, and his voice caught. “Fernar.”

  Tagaret held him tighter. Reyn’s hand pressed against his back. Even after several seconds, he couldn’t find voice to speak.

  “Did you. . . ?” Reyn asked, and paused for breath. “When you, had it,” he paused again. “Did you realize, what it would be—to die?”

  “Elinda forbear,” Tagaret said automatically. But it wasn’t Elinda’s gentleness that came to his mind—not the fever, nor the relentless and inevitable decline of the Race. Instead came a vision of breathless heat and light, curling grasses, and billowing smoke: Varin’s teeth. His heart pounded all over again, insisting he must live; and the whistle tune in the heat of his memory sounded like a cry of defiance. He shook his head. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. “Not the way you did, I’m sure.”

  Reyn’s fingers curled closed against his back. “I realized, I might never, see them again.” He turned his head toward the portrait on the wall.

  Tagaret looked up at Faril and Lady Catenad, smiling down. “Do they know you’re all right?”

  “Shara sent, a radiogram.”

  “Maybe they’ll come to see you, then.” Would they dare? To leave their place of safety, to travel the Road under the sun, with the sky, and the wysps, and the wilderness? But they had gone to Safe Harbor in the first place, hadn’t they?

  “I can’t stay here,” Reyn said.

  Tagaret looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Pelismara.” He breathed faster. “My parents, won’t come back. They don’t like it. As soon as, I’m old enough, I’ll go. Safe Harbor. No one waiting, to see . . .” He relaxed into his pillow.

  “See what?”

  “See who dies next.”

  Someone must have told him about the Selection. Tagaret took Reyn’s hand. “There’s more to Pelismara than that,” he said. “Yesterday, when all I could think about was death, Mother took me to the surface. I saw the sky, and the grain harvest, and fire, and Venorai using music to command Arissen.”

  Reyn blinked at him. “What? What does that, have to do, with anything?”

  “I have no idea; that’s the whole point. I had no idea it was even possible. Our life in the Society has never seemed so small.”

  Reyn sighed. “That’s true.”

  Tagaret squeezed his fingers. “Reyn, there are terrible people here, but there are
also people worth fighting for. Worth staying for.”

  “You . . .” Reyn gazed up at him sadly. “Don’t love me.”

  Tagaret felt sick. “But Reyn, I do. Imagining being without you nearly killed me. You understand me, like no one else does. You always did.” Years ago, in the flood of unbearable congratulations that had followed Father’s promotion to Selimna, only a smallish Ninth Family boy had offered him condolences on the loss of his mother. And in all this, he’d lost sight of what Reyn was still going through. Tagaret took a deep breath. “I admit, I’ve done a bad job understanding you. I’ll try to do better. And when—if, if you really have to go to Safe Harbor to be with them, then I think you should go.”

  Reyn didn’t answer, but with surprising strength, pulled him down into a kiss. They had no energy for passion, but the feeling of Reyn’s fingers in his hair meant hope, and the heavens still turning.

  Someone knocked.

  Tagaret didn’t want to let go. It shouldn’t be time to leave—not yet—but he drew away and went to the door. Instead of Imbati Shara, he found Gowan, dressed in a very adult-looking suit of graphite-gray silk and emeralds.

  Tagaret startled. “Gowan?”

  “Tagaret!” Gowan cried. “Mercy of Heile, you’re alive, too?” He hugged him, shook him, thumped him, and then hugged him again.

  “Whoa, easy . . .”

  “Sorry.” Gowan grinned, then wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him into the room again. Reyn got a less vigorous greeting, but still, Tagaret loved that they would include him. He sat down cross-legged on the floor, while Gowan sat beside Reyn on the edge of the bed.

  “Kinders fever, and you’re both still here,” Gowan said, shaking his head. “You’re so lucky.”

  “You’re the . . . the lucky one,” said Reyn. “You didn’t have, to go through this.”

  Gowan grimaced. “Of course, you’re right. And Fernar, Elinda keep him . . .”

  Tagaret glanced at Reyn. Silence fell among them like a stone.

  Finally, Tagaret steeled himself. “Gowan, we can’t blame you for having your own life to look after,” he said. “What with the assassination attempts, and the Round of Eight today.” Thank all the gods he was no longer part of it—the shortcut to power had pitched him into a crack, if not the one he’d expected.

  Gowan twisted his fingers. “I thought you might have been too sick to keep track of that, Tagaret.”

  “Well, no.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Gowan looked him in the eye. “I’m really not supposed to talk about the Selection, especially with you.”

  “But I’m not your rival anymore.”

  “You’re First Family.”

  “What?!” Tagaret leapt to his feet in indignation, swayed, and had to catch himself on the bedpost. “Is that what you think? I thought you weren’t seeing me because of safety concerns and the fuss of your candidacy. But have they really changed you? Have you forgotten who I am? Now that Fernar is gone, all that’s left is we’re-Ninth-and-you’re-First, and I must love my father and my brother so much I’d kill for them, is that it?”

  Gowan looked uncomfortable, but he lashed back. “Tagaret, you know how dangerous Selection secrets are. You don’t understand how important this is to me!”

  So, so small . . . Tagaret growled in exasperation. “Listen, Gowan, I want you to be Heir. Crown of Mai, I want you to be Eminence! Who else could I trust? I look at Nek and Yril—Ower and Sangar who are total strangers, and Innis—Innis, who’s gone and taken my Della while I’ve become nothing more than another ‘asset’ to the First Family’s chances! My father’s trying to partner me to anyone who offers him a vote!”

  Gowan lost his angry look. “So is mine,” he sighed. “Not that it matters. Lady Inkala was always out of reach.”

  Mercy—had he set his heart on Cousin Inkala? Tagaret fell silent in another rush of grief and guilt.

  “You’re not, just, First Family,” said Reyn. “Not to us. Is he, Gowan.”

  “Of course he isn’t,” Gowan replied gruffly.

  “Mai’s oath, Gowan,” Tagaret said. “There has to be a way to get you through to the end of the Selection. I don’t have much information to give you, but I do know that my father will plan assassinations without blinking. You should be on the lookout for that.”

  Gowan raised his eyebrows. “Even after the Round of Eight?”

  “Now there’s precedent for it. And another thing most people probably don’t know is that Father and Nekantor don’t work together.”

  “No?”

  “They fight constantly. I wish it were enough to slow them down. But you can be sure that Nekantor is formulating his own plans that have nothing to do with Father’s. It’s not much, but if I learn anything better, I’ll let you know.”

  Gowan stood and put a firm hand on his arm. “You’re a good friend,” he said. “I don’t know if I can do anything about Della, but if an opportunity comes up today during our question session with the cabinet, I won’t hesitate.”

  “Take Innis down,” Tagaret said.

  Gowan nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  —

  Not that he would have traded a minute of his time with Reyn and Gowan, but Tagaret couldn’t help noticing that Mother was agitated on the way home. Frustration made sense, with the Round of Eight closing in on them. He’d been lucky for the chance to ask Gowan to act against Nek and Innis. But would it be enough? With the Fifth Family’s two votes, plus the vote of the Sixth Family in his pocket, Innis would have to stumble seriously to get knocked out now. On the other hand, it had happened to Herin’s favorite in the Round of Twelve . . .

  As they reentered the suite, Serjer emerged from his Maze door to greet them, and Mother startled.

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” Serjer said.

  “Of course, Serjer. I’m just—nervous. Has Garr asked after me?”

  Serjer bowed. “No, Mistress, but that may be because Grobal Fedron and Lady Selemei have come to call. I believe they all intend to go down to the Round of Eight question session together.”

  “Garr is consenting to be seen with Selemei?” She glanced at Tagaret; he shrugged.

  “Yes, Lady. Though I must remark that both he and Fedron have momentarily stepped out of the sitting room.”

  Mother’s eyebrows leapt high—a reproach Tagaret wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of. “Garr left a guest unattended? What can he be thinking?”

  Serjer angled his head to one side. “Lady Selemei is not entirely unattended, Mistress. Premel is seeing to her refreshment.”

  “Thank you, Serjer.” She thought for a moment. “Tagaret, love, I’m sorry to ask you this. Do you think you could speak with Selemei for a few moments?”

  “Me?” After all the Lady had hoped for him, wouldn’t she be disappointed to speak to him now?

  “The thing is . . .” Mother cast a brief glance back at Aloran. “This isn’t what I’d planned to wear to the Round of Eight announcements. Your father won’t be pleased if he hasn’t seen me ready before he departs. It won’t take me much time to change, Aloran, will it?”

  “Lady, I’ll work as fast as I can.”

  “Oh, Aloran, bless you.” Mother held out her hand, palm-up.

  Serjer gasped.

  Tagaret had never in his life imagined an Imbati making that sound. He looked from Serjer to Aloran, and found the young bodyguard blushing distinctly. Mother quickly fisted her hand against her stomach. She tossed her head and pushed through the vestibule curtain.

  “Selemei,” she called. “So good to see you! I hope you’ll forgive me, but you’ve caught us woefully unprepared. Have you seen Tagaret yet?”

  His cue. For Mother, he’d handle this—he stepped in. Lady Selemei was standing, and Keeper Premel now bowing away from a flute of drink that s
he held in one brown-gloved hand. The glass provided a glittering contrast to her gown, which gleamed in colors of jasper. Imbati Ustin was relatively unobtrusive, standing some distance away by the wall, but the intense look in Selemei’s eyes put Tagaret instantly on edge.

  “Welcome, Cousin,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry we were out when you arrived. It was my fault entirely. I insisted on seeing my friend Reyn of the Ninth Family when I learned of his recovery from Kinders fever.”

  “You’ll excuse me, Selemei, dear,” Mother murmured, and hurried away through the double doors.

  Lady Selemei nodded after her. “It’s good to see you, young Tagaret. I don’t mind at all that you were out. Elinda’s forbearance is worthy of gratitude—and indeed, you are looking astonishingly well.”

  “Thank you. Of course, Father just thinks it makes me a good Family asset.” He instantly regretted saying it. Either Selemei would be horribly offended, or she might agree with Father. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

  “One single day,” Lady Selemei sighed.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You really only missed one day, Cousin. Not that you had any control over it, but that was a sorry day for the First Family.” Her dark eyes were compassionate now, full of the same ironic intelligence that always put him off guard.

  “Don’t vote for my brother,” he blurted, then snapped his mouth shut.

  The corners of Lady Selemei’s lips curved upward. “The First Family Council has fallen into confusion,” she said. “One might expect that to weaken our candidate—except, of course, other Families are in the same straits. Your father is driving himself to the brink of exhaustion to get your brother selected, and Fedron now follows him in everything like a tunnel-hound.”

  “Surely there has to be another way.”

  “As you say,” she agreed. “It’s at times like these that I wish I had a better relationship with your mother.”