Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  Tagaret frowned. This obviously wasn’t about their occasional games of kuarjos. “What do you mean?”

  Lady Selemei gave an enigmatic smile and sipped her drink. “I think, if you spoke to her on my behalf . . .”

  He stared at her, a horrid feeling stretching his guts. This was Lady’s politics. Maybe she didn’t consider him an asset, but he’d asked her for a favor, so she expected one in return. She wanted Mother to do something against Father.

  “You can’t just use me to get to my mother,” he said. “She hates politics.”

  “As do you,” said Lady Selemei, unruffled. “But I would have voted you Heir and been grateful to do it. Ladies as intelligent as your mother are not easy to find. You think I should take a more direct approach to your father? A more gentlemanly approach, perhaps?”

  He flushed. “No. But Mother wants—” Safety, his mind whispered. He heard the passionate voice again, begging to protect her, and the image of Aloran blushing leapt into his mind. Uncertainty shadowed him. “Uh, mm,” he stammered aloud, “privacy.”

  “I see,” said Lady Selemei. “So I should allow you to speak for her?”

  “No!” He looked Selemei in the eye. “Mother speaks for herself—but I speak for myself, and I believe I’m the one whose help you were requesting. Reach her another way, if you’d like. A note delivered by Household has served you well enough in the past.”

  Lady Selemei bowed her head. “Well spoken, Cousin—how I wish I might be seeing you in today’s question session! Nevertheless, I hope that if you value the goals I once discussed with you, you might mention me to her.”

  “I’ll mention you.”

  “And I’ll endeavor to make sure we can announce an optimal result this afternoon.”

  A thunk came from the double doors of the private drawing room. In walked the new Arissen, Karyas. Nek and Benél came in behind her. Nek looked perfectly arranged, as usual, but his face glowed disconcertingly. Benél was holding him by the back of the neck.

  “Benél.” Father’s voice rumbled through the doorway. “Hands off, or you’ll ruin everything.”

  “Benél’s always done that,” said Nekantor. “Leave us alone.”

  “It’s too obvious,” said Father. “What happened to Sangar of the Eighth Family must not happen to us.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Benél. He dropped his hand. Nekantor’s face soured, and he started straightening his cuffs.

  Father walked in with Fedron beside him. Father’s green suit had the unfortunate effect of making his face look off-color, and he was holding onto Fedron’s shoulder. Behind them, Father’s Sorn and Fedron’s Chenna held themselves with defensive readiness that looked positively dangerous.

  Father wheezed a cough and cleared his throat hard. “Nekantor, you’re fidgeting.”

  “Shut up, Father.” Nekantor winked at Benél, and Benél smiled.

  Father gave a low hiss, but turned his eyes on Tagaret. “Well? Don’t stand there like an idiot. Wish your brother good luck today.”

  Tagaret gritted his teeth. Lady Selemei was right: how low they’d fallen since the gathering before the Round of Twelve! “Nekantor,” he said, “may Mai the Right grant you the success you deserve.”

  Nekantor laughed.

  No, he hadn’t done enough.

  “Well, then,” said Lady Selemei brightly. “Seems like we’re ready to go. Tagaret, I suppose we’ll see you next in the Plaza of Varin, with news on the results of the question session and voting?”

  He stood up straighter. “Yes, indeed, Lady Selemei.”

  “Wonderful. Give my best to your mother.”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Father growled. “Tagaret, tell her she’d better be there on time.”

  “We’ll be there, Father.”

  Finally, they all swept out, leaving him alone in the sitting room. Gnash it—Nekantor was the wrong candidate, and he knew it. But he also clearly knew that while he had Father’s protection, everyone else was powerless against him. Tagaret wandered to the gaming table, where someone had left a game of keyzel marbles unfinished on the obsidian board. He sat and began half-heartedly returning the spheres of lapis and malachite to their starting cradles. If only it were so easy to turn back time. Even just now, he should have defended Mother better. Or maybe he just shouldn’t have taken Mother out to Reyn’s in the first place. Too late, too late for everything.

  “Hey, that’s our game.”

  Tagaret looked up. Pyaras had just walked in.

  Serjer announced belatedly, “Your cousin to see you, young Master.”

  “Thanks, Serjer,” said Tagaret. “Your game, Pyaras?”

  “Veriga and I were playing, before.”

  “Mercy, I’m sorry.” He looked down at the board—no way to recapture its previous arrangement. “I didn’t know.”

  Pyaras took the chair across from him and smiled almost shyly. “Actually, it’s all right. Veriga’s just woken up, so we might play again one day. He seemed pretty surprised to find me visiting.”

  “I’m sure.” Pyaras had certainly changed. “Good for you.”

  “What about you? Any news?”

  “I saw Reyn this morning, and he’s getting better, too.” He smiled.

  “Shall we play marbles, then?” Pyaras winked. “Bet you eight orsheth I’ll win.”

  In the end it was a good thing he hadn’t agreed to the bet. Pyaras was surprisingly good at keyzel marbles, and quickly took the better strategic position. Tagaret found it hard to concentrate knowing that Herin and the cabinet members were questioning Nekantor, Gowan, and the others at this very moment. He moved a sphere of malachite, certain Pyaras would take it easily.

  The double doors swung open, and in walked Mother. Her gown was a blaze of orange and pink with sparkling clouds threaded through it, paling into the bodice and tinged with purple at the shoulders. It made his heart leap.

  “Which one is that, Mother?” Tagaret asked.

  Mother’s face brightened, and she glanced over her shoulder at Aloran. “The sunset,” she said, brushing her fingers across her skirts. “Thanks for coming, Pyaras. Will your father be joining us?”

  “He hates big fancy events.” Pyaras shrugged. “Sunset? You mean, the sky?”

  Mother nodded. “When Father Varin departs,” she said. “Are you boys ready? Shall we go?”

  They walked three abreast down to the Plaza of Varin, where a space had been cordoned off between the front gate of the Residence grounds and the glowing shinca trunk at the Plaza’s center. Just before the gold-tipped bars of the gate, a stage had been built, guarded by members of the Eminence’s Cohort. Folding chairs filled the rest of the space. Tagaret took Mother’s hand atop his own, leading her in among the crowd.

  Gossip swirled around them. Here someone said Sangar of the Eighth Family’s commitment to the future of the Race was now in question, since he’d been discovered in intimacy with another boy; there a voice said that the Eminence’s partner might appear any second, publicly acknowledging her pregnancy for the first time. Over everything flowed the silver light of the shinca. It reflected off the steel curve of the Alixi’s Elevator and gave strange clarity to the swaying of ladies’ gowns, to a gentleman tugging at his gloves, to an Imbati smoothly folding and replacing a chair so his master could pass from one row to the next. Lowers had been mostly cleared out of the Plaza; only a few could be glimpsed hanging with nervous curiosity around the edge.

  Father had reserved several places in the first row. Tagaret slid in beside Mother, and Pyaras sat on her other side, while Aloran moved smoothly into the second row with the other bodyguards. From here the view was all Arissen, a row of them in the bright Cohort orange that now seemed to be everywhere—the nearest man had nostrils as wide as a herdbeast’s.

  “Look there,” Pyaras whispered. “I know her—that’s Dekk.�
� He scooted two seats over, where a whiplike woman in the row of guards nodded a quick greeting to him.

  Above, on the stage, four brass chairs sat empty.

  Please, oh, holy Mai, let Gowan succeed . . . let Nekantor and Innis fail . . .

  Behind the stage, the Residence gates swung open. Someone was coming out, but with guards in the way it was impossible to see. Cabinet members probably, and candidates, which meant the question session was over, the result already foregone. Tagaret’s stomach knotted.

  Father lumbered into view at the left corner of the stage, with Fedron following, and pushed aside a last couple of people who hadn’t yet sat down. He thumped into the chair beside Mother, who shrank away from him against Tagaret’s shoulder.

  “Father, what happened?” Tagaret asked. Father seemed out of breath and didn’t answer. “Father, are you all right? Who are the last four?”

  People started walking up onto the stage. First was . . . Arissen Karyas. Oh, gods, Nekantor had made it through. Behind Nekantor, a second Arissen accompanied Menni of the Second Family. The third guard belonged to—oh, no—Innis of the Fifth Family, still limping after his knife to the leg. This was going to be a complete disaster!

  But last onto the stage was Gowan of the Ninth Family, who preceded his bodyguard onto the stage. The emeralds on his suit glowed in the shinca-light, and he held himself proudly. His eyes when they found Tagaret’s were sober, but full of promise.

  Oh, please, Gowan. Two more rounds. Please . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bodyguard

  The young Master had spoken thoughtlessly, but Aloran’s body went cold. Father, are you all right? He should have noticed the worsening of Master Garr’s condition days ago: his increasing pallor, the fact that he sat in any chair available, his coughing and moments of inappropriate absence—even his breathing now, as fast as running though all he’d done was walk here from the Residence. It all pointed to a single inevitable conclusion.

  Aloran leaned forward. “Lady, I must tell you . . .”

  “Mm?” Lady Tamelera didn’t turn; her gaze stayed on the stage.

  The Eminence Herin had taken up a microphone. Now he leapt down from the stage with a flourish and introduced his partner, Lady Falya. She sat several seats away from them, the portrait of late-term fecundity, surrounded by fluttering lady admirers. The Eminence basked in the applause that she received. Only after the applause died down did he climb back up the stairs and explain how he and the cabinet had questioned each Heir candidate in the private session just concluded.

  Aloran tried again, speaking into Lady Tamelera’s ear. “Lady, your partner is seriously ill.”

  She made a small inquisitive noise in her throat.

  “Lady, he’s dying.”

  She stiffened.

  “Forgive me. It isn’t the right time to be telling you, but his heart is failing. He might have until next week—or he might die today. If he doesn’t see a doctor . . .”

  Lady Tamelera turned her head slightly toward him. “But why wouldn’t Sorn—” Her voice choked off.

  Aloran’s heart tried to stop beating. Sorn wasn’t here. The chair between him and Fedron’s Chenna was empty, which meant Grobal Garr wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Someone would die today.

  Here. Now.

  “From the First Family, allow me to introduce Nekantor,” the Eminence announced. The crowd again burst into eager applause.

  Aloran tried to begin a breath pattern, but in vain; his body went numb. The Eminence started talking about young Master Nekantor’s pedigree in politics, his character, and his performance in the question session.

  Aloran forced his fingers to move, feeling in his pockets for combat rounders. Only three—not nearly enough to feel fully armed.

  It was hopeless anyway. Sorn’s chosen weapon gave him the advantage of range, so he’d be out of reach somewhere, hiding safely beyond the guarded perimeter. And meanwhile here he was, hemmed in on every side by the Pelismara Society. He couldn’t even leave his seat to investigate, while Sorn might strike at any second.

  Think, Aloran. Measured breaths relieve the body. Relief of the body calms the mind. The calm mind is observant and prepared.

  With air came logic. A sniper would place himself high, most likely in one of the buildings surrounding the Plaza. The Residence was too far away, behind its gates. The Old Forum stood at a considerable distance behind the crowd, possibly within range for an Arissen bolt weapon, but too far for a crossbow, besides which the bright light of the shinca would make sighting past it difficult. That left the Courts on the right, and the Academy on the left.

  “From the Second Family, I present to you, Menni,” the Eminence said. In the swell of applause, young Master Nekantor returned to his seat and Menni of the Second Family stood up into the crowd’s hungry attention. “Menni is the only son of our well-respected Cabinet Secretary, Boros . . .”

  Aloran scanned the stone columns of the Courts, the frieze of Holy Mai the Right and one’s petitioners, the roofline. If Sorn was there, he was too well hidden. He turned to the Academy, though, and disgusted certainty filled his stomach. The children of the Academy were always welcome to return, a privilege Sorn would not be granted by the wardens of the Courts. But to use the Academy, birthplace of faith and loyalty, to launch an attack? The sheer gall of it was—well, it was utterly Garr’s Sorn.

  A movement: glinting steel at the roofline rail. Panic tightened his throat all over again. Sorn was there. He must have been there for minutes already, waiting. Why hadn’t he struck? Gowan of the Ninth Family had already offered him a perfect moment, as the last one to sit down when the candidates first walked up onto the stage. His bodyguard had only chosen to shelter him on the Courts side. So why was he still alive?

  “From the Fifth Family, this is Innis,” the Eminence said, gesturing to the eldest, sharp-nosed candidate who now rose to stand before his chair. “Innis first distinguished himself at the age of seventeen with his service to Chief Adjudicator Uresin, and he’s already shown himself a canny politician.”

  It had to be something about the ceremony. In the last Selection, Grobal Garr had struck the day after the Round of Eight, so there must be a rule in operation here—one that required the ceremony to finish before any action could be taken. That had to be it. And that meant there could be only one best target: the single boy left standing with his head exposed when the last word of the ceremony was spoken.

  “And finally, from the Ninth Family, Gowan,” said the Eminence. “Son of Amyel, who has served on our cabinet since Indal 3 . . .”

  Aloran stopped listening. He watched the Eminence’s lips. What Eminence Herin said meant nothing, while every word counted down toward death. Whenever he paused for air, Aloran couldn’t stop an involuntary twitch; Fedron’s Chenna cast him a look with narrowed eyes. Did she know of the plot? Would she try to stop him if he intervened?

  The rounders had warmed against his fingers. He took them into the palm of his hand. There was only one possible course of action, and only one moment—the instant when the Eminence’s lips stopped moving.

  Now.

  He stood and threw. The first rounder hit Grobal Gowan in the ankle; the young nobleman leapt backward, clutching his foot, and the second one hit him in his standing leg, just below the knee. Aloran raised his arm for a third, but it wasn’t necessary. Grobal Gowan lost balance completely and crashed into Grobal Innis’ lap.

  The Eminence’s partner screamed.

  My apologies, sirs, and Lady.

  Aloran replaced the last rounder in his pocket and bowed his head as the Eminence’s Cohort swarmed the stage. An orange wave surged over the candidates, down into the audience, and over Lady Tamelera and the Master in their chairs. Aloran stood still and allowed them to seize him. The Eminence’s partner and her entourage hurried away. Beside him, Fedron’s Chenn
a got to her feet. Chenna’s face clearly betrayed her shock—apparently this was one secret about her adversary that she hadn’t discovered.

  “Imbati!” barked an enormous Arissen now clamping his left arm in mitts of steel. “You are under arrest for assaulting a gentleman of the nobility.”

  Aloran took a deep breath. “The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” he said. “There is an assassin on the roof of the Service Academy. I couldn’t allow him to strike, but I couldn’t reach him, so I had to remove his target from a vulnerable position. My weapons are legal and nonlethal.”

  “So you say,” scoffed the woman on his right arm.

  A high voice piped up behind her—the young Master’s cousin, Grobal Pyaras. “But, Dekk, shouldn’t someone at least look?”

  “He’ll be searched soon enough, sir,” the woman replied.

  “I mean on the Academy roof.”

  Lucky thing, that he hadn’t thrown the third rounder. He would willingly have shown it to them, but they weren’t allowing him to reach into his pockets. Aloran sought after the young man he’d felled, but Grobal Gowan had already been whisked away to safety. There was no sign that Sorn had ever taken his shot. Some kind of stir was still going on in the crowd closer to the Courts, with guards involved, but when he tried to crane his neck to see, his captors shook him straight.

  “You’ll come with us, Imbati.”

  Come with them? What had he done? “But, sir, my Mistress,” he protested. “She needs me.”

  Lady Tamelera put a hand on the female guard’s shoulder. “Arissen, this is my manservant. I vouch for the integrity of his actions.”

  “Lady . . .” said the Arissen.

  “Arissen, I honor your valiance,” Tamelera said. “But I guarantee Aloran wouldn’t attack anyone if he wasn’t certain it was the only alternative. He has saved noble lives three times since the Eminence Herin took the throne.”

  The woman’s hands released his right arm. “Lady,” she said, “perhaps we could—”

  “Never mind her.” That was Grobal Garr. His face was chilling, livid with absolute hatred. “This is an outrage—arrest him already! I see no evidence of any attacker.”