Mazes of Power

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Mazes of Power Page 40

by Juliette Wade


  “And he would protect me. Oh, dear Tagaret, he would!” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, so hard and long he couldn’t breathe. He found the edge of her nightgown and pushed it up. She was naked underneath. He felt up the back of her thigh to her bottom and pulled her closer. As Sirin was his witness, he wanted to forget the whole idea of stopping. She made a sound—a very different sound, blissful and urgent, while her fingers moved from his chest to his stomach, then his hips. He stood up and pulled her against him—how it ached—oh, dear gods, would she consent now anyway, in spite of everything?

  Then another consequence dashed him in ice. Nekantor.

  He fell to sit on the bed, catching her when she tried to fall with him. “Della,” he whispered. “What if my brother tries to use us? What if he tries to take your Family’s vote?”

  For a time, she didn’t answer. “Would that be bad?” she asked.

  “Yes. He has to be stopped.”

  “I could tell Father.” She sighed. “I don’t think it’ll do much good. You can’t rely on politicians, Tagaret. If stopping him is that important, you’ll need to do it yourself.”

  “How?”

  “Hurt him,” she said. “You’re the only one who’d know how. He’s your brother.”

  Instantly, he knew what to do. He seized her by both hands. “Della, you’re brilliant.”

  “Now I think you’d better go.”

  He stood up awkwardly, closed his buttons, and straightened his clothes as best he could. Couldn’t get the scarf quite right, but close enough. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “I don’t want you to be alone, hearing the things they’ll say about you tomorrow. I want to be there every minute.”

  “You can’t,” she said softly. “I’ll be all right. Don’t see me again until an arrangement is made, or they’ll know it was you, and everything will go bad. You’ll have to pretend you’re angry, and that you accept me grudgingly.”

  His heart hurt just thinking about it. “Della, I love you. I accept you with all my heart.”

  “I love you, too. I know you can do this.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. “Together, we will outplay them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Benél

  The Ninth Family’s servant offered Nekantor a drink.

  The liquid whispered to him: poison, poison.

  Nekantor kept breathing. Clear glass; its pale, bubbly contents were probably apple yezel, but his chest felt tight. He needed to count. He couldn’t count, with Gowan and his father watching. He imagined buttons in his mind: one, two, three. One, two, three. It wasn’t the same. His fingers itched.

  Arissen Karyas leaned to his ear. “Shall I taste it, sir?”

  Nekantor shook his head. Karyas was too valuable to risk.

  He could do this by himself. Holding the glass wouldn’t hurt him, anyway—it was easy on the eye, cooling on the mind. He took the drink from the Imbati’s hand, and his fingers didn’t even shake. Clear, smooth crystal. The urge to count diminished.

  I can do this by myself. Three more hours, and the game will be over. The First Family can still win.

  “Father,” said Gowan, “I don’t know why you’re listening to him.”

  Amyel turned to his son. Nekantor pretended to sip his drink. Sweet scent touched his nostrils, and the glass remained perfectly full, and he remained perfectly safe. See? He could do this without Father. He needed all the votes.

  “Honestly, Gowan,” said Amyel, “I don’t know who else you’d expect to argue the First Family’s case at this point.”

  “Tagaret said—”

  “That’s not his role,” said Amyel. “The final round is where the really difficult decisions get made. I can understand you’d prefer Tagaret to be here; he’s your friend. I have to bear in mind our history with the Fifth Family.”

  Gnash Gowan for his interference. Nekantor wanted to slap that look off his too-handsome face. Instead, he considered his drink—ah yes, pure crystal. The next move drifted up with the tiny bubbles. “Gowan, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you can see why I had to argue against you. That’s what Heir Selection is like. Now that we’re no longer rivals, I want to honor our Families’ history of alliances.”

  “Alliances that Innis will bear in mind if the Fifth Family wins,” Amyel added.

  That was better; Amyel was the vote he needed anyway, not Gowan. But if Gowan could be softened, he might be useful later. Father had been stupid to try to kill him. If only he’d killed Innis, then all this fawning would be unnecessary.

  Nekantor smiled. “Gowan, I hope you aren’t holding our Aloran’s improprieties against him.”

  Gowan glared. “Not his.”

  “We honor Aloran for his actions,” said Amyel. “Please also thank your cousin Pyaras for helping to resolve the matter.”

  Bang-bang-bang!

  Nekantor jumped. Liquid splashed over his fingers. Karyas quickly plucked the glass from his hand.

  Poison . . .

  Nekantor wiped his fingers with a handkerchief. This was apple yezel, not poison. And even if it was poison, it couldn’t kill him—there were no contact poisons that could be put into a drink. He was safe. He had to be safe! He wiped his fingers again, one by one.

  “Aaahmyel!” A voice boomed, as loud as the fist had been on the bronze door. The Ninth Family’s vestibule curtain whipped aside and Cabinet Secretary Boros burst in, with his manservant behind him. “News, news! Have you heard?”

  “Um, shouldn’t we speak in private?” asked Amyel.

  “Ah, yes, you have a guest!” Boros laughed, loud enough to echo. “No need—the news is everywhere. Innis of the Fifth Family is in a rage. He’s cut off negotiations with the Sixth Family!”

  The Sixth Family? Nekantor stiffened against the echoes, fisted his contaminated hand and hid it in his pocket. His chest twisted, but he couldn’t run out. He had to hear about the Sixth Family, not to mention keep the Ninth Family’s vote, and impress Boros if he could. He needed all the votes. He pressed a question between his teeth. “Why?”

  “What happened?” Gowan asked.

  “This very night,” the Secretary made a flourish with his hands, “Innis’ betrothed has been despoiled.”

  Amyel grunted. “What did she do?”

  Secretary Boros frowned. “Nothing, so far as we can tell. Her house was broken into and her bodyguard ambushed . . . you can guess the rest.”

  Sex, behind a locked door. The thought sent a shiver down Nekantor’s back. Gods, how he wanted Benél. There must be a way to keep the perfection secret, even now; he could play games as well as anyone. He had to get out of here—but not yet, not yet. A few more moves. He could do this by himself; he had to do this by himself!

  “Has anyone been arrested, sir?” he asked.

  “Not so far.” Boros shrugged. “The manservant involved was clearly experienced. And as the obvious motive is political sabotage, the list of suspects is long.”

  Gowan muttered. “Varin’s teeth—Tagaret’s going to be pretty upset.”

  Tagaret? Yes, that was it—the move that would allow him to escape. “If you’ll excuse me, maybe I’d better go break the news to my brother,” Nekantor said. “He was rather an admirer of that young Lady.”

  Secretary Boros shrugged. “He probably already knows. Good luck to you, young Nekantor.”

  “Thank you for coming to speak with us,” said Amyel.

  Don’t scream. Don’t run. Nekantor breathed tightly, but managed to bow. “Thank you, sir.” He clenched his teeth and walked, step, step, step, through the vestibule and out into the main hall.

  “Home,” he snapped at Karyas.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There were people in the hall; he shouldn’t run, but he ran anyway. Slapped the door lock with his left hand, ran straight to his rooms
and stripped down to nothing. He poured hot water over his body, over his right hand. Washed it, and washed it again—the liquid had been on too long, and would not be entirely expunged. Benél, where was Benél? But there was no time for secrecy, for perfection; not if he wanted to reach the Sixth Family and make a deal. He dried his body, but the hand resisted. He washed it again, and again—finally fumbled his cabinet open, took a bottle of cleaning alcohol and poured it over his red, shaking fingers.

  He hissed in pain, but finally the last traces of the awful liquid burned away.

  Carefully now. Nekantor dressed: eleven buttons, each touched in order with his sore fingers. That was better. He moved into the circle, touching and checking. Yes, better and better. This game was almost over.

  He still couldn’t see the whole vision in his mind.

  But he wouldn’t ask for help; Father couldn’t help now, anyway. He had to do this by himself. All the dancing lines had been cut off, all but two—so close to the center, did he really need to see it all? He could do this by himself, so long as he could see the very next move, the move right before his feet.

  Innis’ loss was his gain. Innis had broken off with the Sixth Family, and that meant the Sixth Family’s vote was back in play.

  Nekantor went to his bedroom door. “Karyas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take me to the suite of cabinet member Arith of the Sixth Family.”

  She nodded. “And your brother, sir?”

  “Forget him.” A delay with Tagaret’s whining might lose him the opportunity completely.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karyas was a good Arissen and knew precisely where to take him; the Sixth Family’s cabinet member also had a suite on the first floor. Nekantor counted paces. Fifty, fifty-five . . .

  Wait—there was Benél’s door.

  At once, he thirsted desperately for perfection. Nekantor shivered, and his hand lifted to his vest buttons, one-two-three, remembering how they came undone.

  But there was no time. Karyas walked past the door, and he had to follow.

  “Nek?”

  Benél’s voice, behind him. Nekantor turned around. Benél was here. Benél was strong, and he had power. “I’m on my way to see Arith of the Sixth Family,” Nekantor said. “Want to come?”

  Benél should have smiled. Benél always loved when they played the game together—but he didn’t smile now. “Nek, I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “No problem.” Probably Benél’s mother was after him again, or his father, and he needed something explained to him. “Except I have to speak to Arith first.”

  Two doors ahead, Karyas was already knocking. Nekantor ran to catch up, faced the door, straightened his vest and his sleeves, and touched his buttons. Sent a wink over his shoulder at Benél. Benél’s eyes widened.

  An Imbati woman opened the door. “Sir?”

  Nekantor nodded to her. “I am Nekantor of the First Family,” he said. “May I please speak to Arith of the Sixth Family?”

  “If you would wait inside, please, sir.”

  He walked in. The vestibule curtain was blue; in Amyel’s suite it had been brown, and in his own, green. He waited, eyes on the second hand of his watch. Finally, the Imbati returned.

  “If you would come with me, please, sir.”

  Nekantor walked into the Sixth Family’s sitting room. This house didn’t look like a muckwalker’s house; it was just like his, with every wall in exactly the right place. Arith of the Sixth Family was waiting for him with an Imbati woman behind his shoulder. He looked as defensive as a tunnel-hound before its den. His long, thinning red hair hung down to his cabinet pin. He hadn’t been nervous in the cabinet question sessions, but today his hands were twitching; the recent news must have shaken him.

  So much the better.

  “You wished to see me, young Nekantor?” Arith asked. He didn’t ask for Father.

  Time for the sympathy move.

  “Yes, sir,” Nekantor said. “I wanted to reach out as soon as I heard. I can’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have an alliance come to nothing so close to the final round.”

  Arith crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want, First Family?”

  Nekantor took a deep breath. Arith was weak; if this had been Doross, the Arbiter of the Sixth Family Council, there would have been sparring, posturing, a game within a game even to get to the point where one might do business. “Sir,” he said with sympathy, “I don’t imagine you’d still wish to support Innis when he blames you for your own misfortune.”

  “You think Innis blames me?” Arith laughed bitterly. “Not at all; he blames Lady Della, and deservedly so. She’s proven herself a harlot.”

  Tagaret, and a harlot—he almost laughed, but managed to cough instead. “I know someone who values her rather more than that.”

  “You could have had her,” Arith said. “Then it wouldn’t have come to this.”

  “And if I were to have her now, sir?”

  Arith’s eyes went wide. “You mock me!” he snapped. “You’d look like a fool. It would only prove you had no serious interest in being Heir.”

  Nekantor pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, sir, of course—except that I don’t mock you at all. I’ve never had any interest in the girl.”

  “What—”

  He pushed onward. “My brother, though—you should see how he sighs over her! He’s devastated at the thought of her disgrace. He’s always known he had no chance at a partnership, but he’s never been quite sane about her—in fact, I’d wager he might even overlook a bit of harlotry.”

  Arith was staring. “Your own brother? You must be crazy—Tagaret of the First Family would never consent to be so compromised!”

  What, did he think Tagaret was too strong to take the girl? Gnash him—there had to be a way to get him to accept the move. Tagaret was weak enough! Nekantor took a deep breath. What did he need to do? What was the next move?

  Ah, yes.

  “All right,” he said, and sighed. “I should have realized you were too smart for me, sir. I confess—Tagaret doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Arith’s eyes narrowed. “Young Nekantor, what do you mean by that?”

  “Precisely what I said, sir. I came to see you without discussing the offer with him. But that doesn’t mean we have no opportunity here. The Sixth Family can’t rely on the Fifth to keep its word. I’m here to tell you that the First Family won’t treat you so lightly. It’s not a direct alliance with the Heir; that’s true. But an alliance with the First Family is a thing of value nonetheless, and I don’t need to wait for a victory. If you could see my brother’s jealous agonies you’d understand—he would be willing to take Lady Della for partner today, in whatever condition.”

  Arith spluttered, “Even carrying another man’s child?”

  “Well . . .” Nekantor couldn’t help a slight smirk. “Partner them fast enough, and perhaps he won’t notice the difference. The Race will prosper either way.”

  Arith stared at him, one second . . . two . . . three . . . and then the corners of his mouth sneaked up. “You’re a practical man, young Nekantor.”

  Nekantor gave a bow. “I believe it’s necessary in times like these, sir. May I consider us agreed, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Behind Arith’s shoulder, his Imbati woman bowed. “Witnessed.”

  “Seconded,” said Arissen Karyas.

  He couldn’t wait to tell Benél.

  Nekantor walked out into the hall, hoarding a smile. Benél hadn’t gone back in but was standing and waiting for him. Nekantor walked to a careful distance and spoke softly.

  “Wonderful news, Benél. I’ve got the Sixth Family’s vote.”

  “Wow.” Benél’s answer sounded wrong—uneven and breathy.

  “I’m givi
ng Tagaret to that girl.”

  “What?” Benél exclaimed. “The used girl?”

  That sounded more like him. Nekantor laughed. “Yes.”

  But Benél didn’t laugh along. He made a face like pain. “Nek, I need to talk to you.”

  “I know. I don’t have a lot of time, or I’d—”

  “Just come in for a second.”

  Strange. Nekantor narrowed his eyes. It was strange, and wrong, but this was Benél. And if he could have a moment—a kiss, a touch—Benél could make anything right. He scanned the hall for watchers, then followed Benél inside. Even unseen in the vestibule, Benél didn’t reach for his neck. He breathed like tears, or anger.

  Wrong, wrong: someone had done something to him.

  “Who’s hurt you?” Nekantor asked. “Is it Yril again? If he’s done anything to you, don’t worry. We’ll crush him.”

  “Gnash it, Nekantor!” Benél shouted.

  Oh, feel the power in that shout! For a split second, pure pleasure vibrated through him—but there was also something else in the sound, something that sent cold fear creeping up his nerves. He held very still.

  “Nekantor,” Benél said. “I can’t—see you anymore.”

  “Of course you can,” Nekantor said. “You know how to keep secrets, Benél.”

  “No. Nek, I can’t—I won’t—see you.”

  Nekantor stared at him. This was all wrong. It couldn’t be true, it was a lie—no, it was a mistake. Benél was powerful, but he made mistakes when he didn’t have things explained to him. “You don’t mean that,” Nekantor said. “We’re the Twins, you said so.”

  Benél raised his fist.

  Nekantor gasped and closed his eyes, shivering, waiting for it.

  Benél didn’t strike. “They told me,” he growled. “Varin’s teeth, Nekantor, they told me what’s really wrong with you—you can’t fool me anymore.”

  Nekantor opened his eyes. “Wrong with me?” he demanded. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Benél’s gaze was accusing. “You’re lying. You’re—you’re twisted in the head.”

  “Benél—someone’s been lying to you, but it’s not me. I’m the only one who sees things as they are! You’ve told me so yourself!”

 

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