What was Herin’s game? Would he ask a favor? That might be good. Just as likely, the room would be full of open teeth. Careful, careful now. Could someone have swayed Herin with another sort of offer?
The library doors opened as they approached. “Come in, Nekantor of the First Family, sir,” the Eminence’s Imbati said. “The Eminence does not like to wait.”
Father caught up, panting and wheezing. Perfect: no breath to argue.
“Thank you, Imbati,” Nekantor said, walking forward. “Sorry if I’m late. Father, I’ll be out in a few moments.” He looked down at his watch. Yes, an excellent first move, and it would keep him safe going in—but inside, the Eminence was not where he should have been. He would have to look up, find where he was sitting.
What if he looked up, and the room strangled him?
“Nekantor of the First Family,” the Eminence’s voice said.
There, on the left. Nekantor turned and looked up. Herin was seated in a stuffed chair, wearing a suit of glimmering brown and amber, every dark gold curl on his head shaped and perfect. But he was not smiling. Another man stood beside him.
Erex, the Arbiter of the First Family Council.
What are you doing here?
He managed not to say it aloud. “Good morning, your Eminence. Good morning, Arbiter Erex, sir.”
“Good morning, young Nekantor.”
Erex was the reason he was here. And Erex had arrived here before him, which meant secret games. Information had been exchanged, here among the random chairs, in the presence of the shinca, under the strange lights.
What did Erex have on him? Information about Garr’s assassinations? Surely not. Had someone tracked his Kartunnen infiltrator back to Karyas? But she’d said she knew how to be careful . . . Was it the blackmail? It couldn’t be the brothel; that, Herin already knew about. Was it Benél? Too many possibilities, each a potential disaster if he let slip his tongue and guessed wrong.
He cleared his throat. “I imagine the Family’s Arbiter has come to you with some complaint about me, your Eminence?” He shifted his feet; the carpet squirmed. He tried to look at Erex, and his throat tightened; he took a deep breath and turned back fast to Herin, to the Eminence’s handsome face and his gleaming buttons. “Is it that I have bad manners with people I don’t like? If so, then he’s telling you something you already know.”
Herin smiled. “I find your aggression refreshing, young Nekantor. Erex and I have been chatting, and he believes I should disqualify your candidacy. What do you think of that?”
Traitor. Nekantor lashed a look at Erex—mistake. The sight of him brought the chaos encroaching all around. He looked down quickly at his watch, dared count only four seconds, then looked up at Herin again. At least Herin was easy on the mind. “I’m surprised that the Arbiter of my Family Council would want to undermine his own judgment in this manner,” Nekantor said. “He approved me.”
Herin chuckled.
Amusement? Derision? Nekantor tried not to clench his teeth. If Herin had been told of the blackmail, and forgiven Erex, then this game was already lost. But Erex couldn’t have told him. No one could forgive what Erex had done. Impossible.
The Eminence said, “I did tell him he had insufficient grounds.”
“I’m sure.”
“But still, what he says concerns me. That you would turn down an offer of partnership, preferring the company of a male cousin. Overnight, no less. It’s behavior unbecoming an Heir to the legacy of Grobal Fyn.”
Holy Twins. This wasn’t about Father or Karyas, or the brothel. It was about Benél! Anger burned in his face, sparked fire in his chest. He’d been careful, hidden the evidence, even made Benél change his behavior when Father said to— but Erex hadn’t come into his house to warn him. He’d been there to betray him!
“The partnership offer was flawed on its own merits,” Nekantor said. “Call me sentimental, but I refused the girl because my brother wanted her more. It has nothing to do with—with spying in my house, and slander on the basis of thin suspicion.”
Herin chuckled again. “You do have bad manners with people you don’t like,” he said. “But if a boy wants me to support him, he needs to be above suspicion.”
He knew what that meant. Herin believed Erex; that was two votes gone, maybe more if Herin decided to talk.
But he had information on Erex: Erex naked with a Kartunnen whore. Erex was tainted. Erex must be removed.
“Eminence,” Nekantor said, “I think you ought to know where Arbiter Erex first came by his suspicions.” He refused to look at Erex, at the weird half-empty bookshelves, the shinca or the lights. “My cousin Benél and I saw him in the brothel raid.”
“A ridiculous accusation,” Erex burst out. Predictable. “Are you confessing to involvement in illegal activity?”
The Eminence Herin held up one hand. “Arbiter, wait. Young Nekantor and I have discussed this on a previous occasion; I know what he was doing at the raid.” He frowned. “What were you doing there?”
Erex said nothing.
Ah, feel the power shift! “Benél and I both saw him,” Nekantor said. “He was in the first room we opened, enjoying the services of a Kartunnen man. And when we came in to punish those who dared to put the health of the Grobal at risk, he threatened us.” He stood straighter. “Our own Family’s Arbiter threatened us, to protect his Lower lover! Bring Benél here and ask him now if you like; he’ll tell you the same.”
Herin lost his composure. His eyes widened in shock, turning, shifting irresistibly toward Erex. And look at Erex now: pale and shaking, and only his Imbati woman kept him standing.
But he should never have looked at Erex.
Chaos invaded suddenly, pushing through his skin and up his nerves. Gods, the room was closing, he had to get out—no, he had to breathe, he hadn’t finished the move. Erex must not bring him down—Erex must fall alone! The air tightened; Nekantor gulped it fast, forcing words out with his hands shaking. “Accuse me if you like,” he panted. “Say I’ve neglected the Race for the sake of my brother.” The panic hit his backbone, and he clenched his fists. “But I’m not the one fraternizing with Lowers who are conspiring against us!”
He ran. Dodged the chairs, fumbled at the door, stumbled out and into Karyas, bounced off.
“Nekantor! What happened?” Father demanded.
No, not Father—he swerved around him, down the hall. The Arissen woman caught up swiftly.
“Home,” he snapped. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
He needed Benél—but it had gone too far, and they had been betrayed.
He ran home, into his rooms, slammed the door, and screamed. He should never have made the bed. The disarranged sheets might have pulled him back into perfection, but now there was no sign left of Benél. He flung himself on the bed, felt for his bedside table, and his fingers found the whore’s ring. He traced it in circles, counting. Counting and counting, until the vibrations of chaos slowly—too slowly—began to still.
This was bad. He’d lost two votes, maybe more; his line in the game had been jolted aside. What were the next moves? Erex’s disgrace might be enough to distract Herin from spreading the Arbiter’s accusations, but was it? Had Herin made any note of his last words? There were things to do, moves that had been planned, but were they the right ones now? Without the pattern, he couldn’t move.
Father banged on the door. “Nekantor! What happened? Come out—we have to meet the Tenth Family!”
Nekantor didn’t answer. He’d lost the Sixth Family’s vote because he hadn’t brought Father. He’d lost the Third Family’s votes because Father had warned him, but he hadn’t hidden the evidence quickly enough, completely enough. He needed the Tenth Family’s vote, but Herin had dropped a stone into the game, and who knew how far the ripples would spread? If they went out, they would meet the rumors—and how co
uld Father defend him with scratches on his face, and Lower paint, too?
No: he had to stay here, safe, until he found the pattern again.
“Nekantor!”
He would not say Father had been right. He would not ask for help.
“Nekantor, open this door!”
“No!”
Father howled in rage, but he did not have the key, and he could not open a lock with a wire, and at last there was silence.
Nekantor sat alone, searching for the pattern. In Benél’s room he had seen it, but to search there was too great a risk. Father’s office was a mess of papers; he would find no pattern there.
He would not ask Father for help.
No one brought him food. He didn’t care. He circled out hours until sleep grabbed him and pushed him down. Morning brought no better vision, only the Round of Four descending on him like heavy darkness. He searched, searched for the pattern.
Behind the curtain on his wall, a door opened. Nekantor whirled on it. “Imbati!” Whoever this was, he would pay for entering where he was not welcome . . .
No one came in. A tray of food slid through onto his floor, and he stared at it.
Dinner?!
He closed and opened his hands. The meal was a terrible sentence. Had he lost so much time? No pattern; and no time, either. He ate—only because it would not advance the First Family if he fainted in the Round of Four. He bathed. Dressed, hands shaking on his buttons. Circled five times before he dared step out, blind to the pattern and unable to see the line beneath his feet.
Father didn’t seem angry anymore, only tired. Nekantor walked, Father and Sorn on his left, Karyas on his right, out to the cabinet meeting room.
“Nekantor,” Father said. “The discussion will be about policy, so don’t try too hard.”
Nekantor looked at him. Father was pulling at his chin, while Sorn stood expressionless. “Father,” he began. I made a mistake. Help me see the pattern. The words choked him, and he couldn’t get them out. “This is my topic. Kinders fever—they chose it because of me.”
Father frowned and pulled him down by the arm, wheezing in his ear. “I mean it. Don’t try to look better than Innis; he’s twice your age and he’ll make you look like a fool if you do. Let your youth protect you.”
Nekantor shuddered. “Don’t touch me, Father.”
Now there were people. Cabinet Secretary Boros was coming down the hall, with Menni and an entourage of Second Family bodyguards and cousins. From the other side came Gowan with his Ninth Family crowd, and Innis, who walked commandingly—nose first—only his Imbati and Arissen bodyguards following him. Four candidates, four camps. Soon the game would be engaged. I made a mistake. His chest twisted; he listened for the rumors that would destroy him.
“I’ll see you inside,” Father said. “Remember, this is for the First Family. Don’t make a mistake.” Leaving their servants behind, he and Boros walked ahead into the meeting room.
Too late: the mistake was already made. Nekantor straightened his sleeves, his vest, brushing away Father’s fingerprints. He combed the surrounding talk for names. Garr—Erex—those names were everywhere, so ripples were indeed spreading. His stomach clenched, and his ears burned, searching for his own name, or Benél’s. Nothing yet, nothing yet . . .
Down the hall beyond Menni there was movement, and the camps broke and swirled; sounds of a struggle. That couldn’t be part of the pattern. Nekantor stopped breathing and pressed his back to the wall, but it was not stable enough. Not chaos—not now! Arissen Karyas stepped in front of him and drew her weapon. Nekantor stared at his watch.
“You’re killing yourselves, and you don’t see it!” a voice shrieked. “You tie our hands, and you’re all going to die! You—” It cut off abruptly. The hum of talk swelled in the corridor; everyone was moving now, talking.
An assassin? An assassin had made it this far into the Residence?
The sweeping second hand lost its power. The wall was shifting, chaos creeping . . . Nekantor shut his eyes, clenched his fists. Tried to breathe.
Arissen Karyas’ voice whispered in his ear. “You’re safe, sir. That was your move.”
His move?
A piece of the pattern appeared beneath his feet. Yes, he’d asked Karyas to arrange Kartunnen infiltrators. His infiltrator had been the one screaming threats.
He was safe. And he could see—only his own line, and only the smallest distance before his feet, but enough.
Nekantor opened his eyes. Before him, the cabinet meeting room door opened, and the Eminence’s manservant beckoned. He walked forward on the spindly line, leaving Karyas behind. One step, another, into the windowless stone room. The Eminences, the greatest faces of the Race, looked down on him, and he found the Great Grobal Fyn in his extravagant, heavy wooden frame. Father of them all, but of the First Family first—that ancient, noble gaze felt like power. Courage rose into Nekantor’s heart, pounding with the blood of powerful men. He smiled. There was a number one on the floor, and he stood upon it, watched Menni taking the place beside him, and then Innis, and then Gowan, across the head of the brass table. Each one brought with him another glimpse of the game.
The cabinet members watched them from the comfort of silk cushions arranged in high-backed brass chairs, just as they had in the Round of Eight questioning. A face to a vote: there was Father, breathing hard in excitement while Doret of the Eleventh Family watched him anxiously; Fedron with his hands clasped; Selemei cold and closed-faced and female. The Third Family’s member, Palimeyn, seemed more nervous than last time, glancing again and again at Herin, who sat like a perfect statue behind the Fourth and Seventh Family’s members at the foot of the table. Bald Secretary Boros was smiling. Caredes of the Eighth Family watched him with the staring eyes of a fish. Gowan’s father Amyel leaned head-to-head with the Tenth Family’s member, keeping generous eyes for his own son. The Sixth Family’s member, Arith, was the one whose vote he should have won, but hadn’t; he and Ethor of the Twelfth Family sat with the two Fifth Family members, staring at him with disdain. There would be no convincing them.
You don’t need them all, Benél had said. Just enough.
“Welcome again, candidates,” said Herin, rising from his chair. “Today we will hear your opinions on the question of Kinders fever, and the role of the Kartunnen in preserving the health of the Grobal Race.”
Nekantor rubbed his thumbs across his knuckles. He had information on the epidemic, but only from two days ago. No chance to learn more now—
“The first to speak today shall be the last,” Herin said. “Gowan of the Ninth Family, your statement.”
Gowan looked startled. “Thank you, sir. With twenty-eight dead of Kinders fever in the past week, I believe we all agree on the magnitude of the problem.”
Twenty-eight, not twenty-five. Herin had tried to damage him, letting Gowan go first—and yet, that had helped him. The Eminence was not above his own mistakes.
“Our health is the greatest challenge facing the Race today,” Gowan continued. “We need a new approach to the quality of our care. I therefore propose that we allow the Kartunnen to be better informed about our health needs: we must institute a petition process, by means of which doctors can access the health records of their patients.”
“What?” Caredes demanded.
Nekantor turned and stared. Gowan wanted to give Kartunnen more power?
Gowan straightened defiantly. “It’s simple,” he said. “Doctors can do a better job if they tailor treatment to our specific needs. The petitions can be written in such a way as to bind doctors to confidentiality.”
Innis of the Fifth Family considered Gowan down his nose. “The problem, Gowan, is that Kartunnen aren’t like Imbati. We can’t be certain they won’t just turn around and expose our failings to our enemies.”
“Kartunnen have their own honor,” said Gowa
n. “They keep oaths of confidentiality to their Lower patients.”
Ridiculous. “We’re nothing like their Lower patients,” Nekantor scoffed. “Lowers don’t die of Kinders fever.”
“They do, Nekantor,” Menni objected.
Nekantor shrugged. “Fine, one or two do, but mostly they suffer a bit and then survive.”
“We’re not disputing medical facts,” Menni said. “Innis, what if the information could be handled appropriately? If a petition system were modified, say, to assign doctors to each Great Family, so no doctor could accidentally divulge anything across Family borders?”
“You’re missing my point,” said Innis. “The risk is entirely unnecessary. What we really need here is to hold the Kartunnen responsible for the care they provide. Doctors who care for the Race must be the very best. If anything, we should institute a testing system, to separate mere practitioners from the ones truly endowed with Heile’s healing gifts; only those should be the ones licensed to care for us.”
A small gap of silence opened, a split second of no argument. Time for the move he and Arissen Karyas had planned; with most of the pattern still invisible, it was a step into the dark, but there was no time for doubt.
“You’re all talking about how the Kartunnen should heal us,” Nekantor said. “No one has yet mentioned how they hurt us. Kartunnen contact was the cause of this epidemic, and since then there have been no fewer than three direct attempts by Kartunnen to interfere with the process of Heir Selection.”
“‘Interfere with Heir Selection’?” Innis said. “That’s an overstatement, Nekantor. They’re nothing but Kartunnen troublemakers, responding to our close scrutiny.”
“Perhaps,” Nekantor said. “But remember, these are Kartunnen we’re talking about. A revolution coming from Arissen would be an armed rebellion—easy to recognize. Have none of you considered the possibility that we may be seeing the Kartunnen version of it? A successful coup at the top, followed by attempts to influence our choice of leadership to their advantage?”
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