“Wouldn’t past inoculants still give them some protection?”
“The Grobal inoculation rate is too low, in part because they have an abnormally high allergy rate,” he said. “We are their wall of safety, and therefore we must be vigilant. I’m even potentially a risk to the Lady who will interview me today.”
That got to the core of it. No wonder he was nervous. Once the group dispersed, Aloran returned to his bunk, counting breaths to steady himself. He must under no circumstances touch the Lady . . .
“You were right to tell them,” said Kiit.
She’d been right, too. “Kiit,” he said, “I can’t believe Lady Tamelera would agree to see me while the source of the fever remains unidentified.”
Kiit nodded sympathy. She offered her hand palm-upward, inviting him to touch.
That sped his heart for a different reason. “Afterward,” he promised. “I’ll come and find you.”
* * *
—
Imbati Ziara the Health Master, who advised him, had requested that he present himself at her office before his interview, so Aloran left the dormitory four minutes early. Centuries of foot traffic had worn concave paths into the limestone here; he walked past three ceramic catchpools which gathered water from drip-chains heavy with calcite, their origin points invisible on the cavern roof. Aloran crossed to the main Academy building and entered between columns whose capitals were carved with golden flames. Once inside the arched hallway, he went to the third bronze door and knocked.
A castemate opened the door. It wasn’t Master Ziara. This new woman was a full head shorter, with white hair and a faded lily crest tattoo that put her at about seventy. Nothing was faded about her expression, however, which suggested the strength of an antique weapon: well-oiled, experienced, and sharp.
“Master Ziara has been called away to duty,” she said. “I am Tamelera’s Eyli, of the Household of the First Family.”
Lady Tamelera’s body servant? Sirin help him, was the Lady herself in the Health Master’s office? He swallowed a gasp and bowed. “Tamelera’s Eyli, sir,” he said respectfully. “I am Aloran, at your service.”
“My Lady has not accompanied me today,” the senior servant said. “I am to interview you in the Hands classroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thank the gods—there could be no danger of accidental infection. But how strange that the family would ask a servant to interview her own replacement . . .
Tamelera’s Eyli walked ahead of him, quickly, with an unusually delicate gait. She pushed through the bronze door of the Hands classroom and faced him at the center of the mats, turning her back to the long metal shelves of bowls, balls, papers, and other practice instruments.
“All right, young one,” she said. “What’s wrong with me?”
That was anger. His heart lurched into his throat. Had he done something wrong? He fell into a deep bow. “I don’t mean to offend you, sir.”
“It would be easier if I could afford manners, Aloran,” Eyli said. “This is a matter of great importance to my Mistress, and since she will be unable to evaluate you herself, I must be harsh. I will ask questions and give orders without redress.”
“I am yours, sir.”
“My question, Aloran. Evaluate me.”
Aloran took a deep breath. He walked around her, studying her stance, her face and breath, the subtle contours of muscle and bone against her black silk garments. “You have at least one compressed vertebra in your upper back,” he said. “Perhaps an old injury; it does not hamper you significantly. You have severe arthritis in your knees, but your hands are unaffected. You have no obvious vision or hearing problems, but your balance is slightly impaired.”
“Then it would be getting time I retired,” she muttered. “Give me evidence for your assessments.”
He gulped. “Your posture, sir. And the way you walked as we came here.”
Eyli attacked with another question. “Why do you want to take my position with Lady Tamelera?”
So she was being forced out. Despite her aggression, though, her voice softened when she said her Lady’s name. That was more intriguing than anything he’d seen in his papers.
“I wish to work for someone I can serve faithfully,” Aloran answered. “Someone who understands the bond that can grow between a mistress and her servant. I won’t presume to ask what it is about your Lady that moves you, but if she were gracious as well as noble, then I would vow service to her without reservation.”
Eyli stared at him wordlessly. Would she send him away?
Without warning, she jabbed a hand at his stomach.
Plis’ bones! Aloran managed to deflect it, but then she tried to hook him with a foot, and suddenly they were fighting. Or, she was fighting. He was mostly defending—Eyli was certainly capable of hurting him, but he didn’t dare strike back. She’d adapted the moves cleverly to compensate for her knees. Dodge, leap, deflect, deflect . . . Eyli’s gaze left him for a second, as if she’d glimpsed someone at the door. He chose not to attack her for it.
Silk swished behind him.
Aloran whirled and met Master Ziara’s foot coming high; he got one hand to it and spun away. He dodged Eyli’s next jab, and deflected a quick pair of blows that Master Ziara attempted to land on his neck and shoulder. Panting, he kept his feet and arms moving while they both assaulted him. What did they want him to do? Surrender? Surely not—but would they really prefer him to attack? Mind whirling, he began to retreat across the mats.
Master Ziara dropped her fighting stance and reached one hand toward Eyli. A signal. The senior servant drew herself up as stiffly as an iron bar and fell sideways.
Gods. . . !
He lunged forward. Found contact and pulled Eyli in, twisting so he hit the floor first. She landed full on top of him.
No, what had he done? She wasn’t his mistress, she was a castemate. Such an offense to her person!
“Please forgive me, sir,” he panted, setting her on her feet and retreating fast. He began a breathing exercise to calm himself from the exertion; it didn’t help with the embarrassment.
“No broken bones,” Eyli remarked. “Ziara, Aloran gave only scant evidence for his physical assessment.”
Master Ziara inclined her head. “Pardon me, sir, if I guess that his assessment was nonetheless correct.”
Eyli let slip a brief gaze-gesture of assent. “You have further business?”
“New public information,” said Master Ziara. “Two decrees from His Eminence Indal, issued five minutes ago; disseminate to all castemates.”
“Proceed.”
Master Ziara took reciting stance, holding one hand flat at the small of her back, and turning her eyes upward.
Aloran thought quickly. This was a lucky interruption. If he’d assessed Eyli’s health correctly, then maybe he was also right about her love for her Mistress. Something was hidden behind Eyli’s aggression and unwillingness to speak. Could she be under oath of silence? But if she were, how could he learn more about Lady Tamelera?
“First,” Master Ziara intoned, “every person present at the concert panic must be subject to health checks and interviews. Second, because the orchestra was present, the Kartunnen caste has become suspect as the fever source, and therefore no Grobal shall have contact with any Kartunnen until the source of the Kinders fever has been identified.” She dropped her stance. “Unfortunately, that includes doctors.”
Aloran managed not to stare. Health checks, but no contact with doctors? That took the Grobal ignorance and fear of science to an entirely new level.
“And,” Master Ziara added, “from the Academy Headmaster, two items. First, we have a team working to determine which variant of the fever claimed Orn’s life; second, we request volunteers of the Lady’s training to conduct health checks on the concert attendees. Answers to be delivered to the He
admaster’s office at your earliest convenience.”
Eyli frowned. “Ziara, my young Master Tagaret will have been there, but I’m not permitted to contact him until tonight. If you would be so kind?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
Aloran sent his own gaze-gesture of gratitude to Master Ziara as she left the room. Thanks to her, Eyli had just suggested a perfect way to learn more. “Sir,” he said. “May I make a request?”
The senior servant returned her attention to him. “Yes?”
“With your permission, may I observe Lady Tamelera’s sons?”
Eyli studied him for a long moment. “Good idea,” she said. “Grobal Tagaret and Nekantor are currently in role-play session at the Grobal School. Observe them; and when you have satisfied yourself, report back to me.”
* * *
—
Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. Role-play was one trial he’d thought he’d finally left behind. The path toward the Grobal School brought a familiar dread, and once the wardens had let him out through the Academy’s front gate, Aloran was grateful for the excuse to run.
At this hour, the Plaza of Varin bustled with a whirl of tourists, mostly Lowers unaware of the fever scare. Merchants wore necklaces of silver and chrysolite; miners wore heavy black belts and stained clothes; artisans had painted lips and wore gray coats. Here and there a few Highers of the Arissen officer caste stood out in rust-red uniforms. In comparison, the Imbati bureaucrats who crossed between the columns of the Courts on the plaza’s east side or the Old Forum in the south, or who whispered past the massive steel cylinder of the Alixi’s Elevator at the southeast corner, provided a welcome touch of sanity.
On the north side, at the Residence gate, a pair of Arissen in the orange uniforms of the Eminence’s Cohort passed Aloran in. He crossed the rock gardens and circled behind the Residence’s west wing to the classical stone building that housed the Grobal School.
No more running.
He entered through the glass doors. It was unsettling to pass by the familiar door of the ladies’ play hall and approach the gentlemen’s hall instead—ladies he knew firsthand, boys only by horrifying report. May the Twins stand by him.
He slipped inside. This room was the mirror image of its neighbor: high smooth stone vaults, walls decorated with paintings and embroidered hangings, a floor carpeted in deep Grobal green. But where young ladies gathered at brass tables near the walls, giggling over notes or pets and laying verbal traps for any Imbati who dared approach, the boys roved the room in gangs. These gangs surrounded Academy students or sent individual boys out to accost Imbati and bring them back.
Aloran struggled against an urge to retreat. A voice spoke beside him, and he nearly jumped.
“Aloran? May I help you?”
It was Min, looking alarmed to see him.
Aloran bowed. “Employment interview,” he said. “I’ve been asked to observe the sons of a prospective Mistress, Grobal Tagaret and Nekantor of the First Family.”
Min gaze-gestured an offer of information. “Fair trade, for earlier,” he said. “Gang behavior predicts political success. Grobal Tagaret captains a mixed-family gang of four. He’s a leader but not a crowd-dominator, and reaches across boundaries. Grobal Nekantor plays a dangerous first mate to the crowd-dominator of his gang, but leads the group in intellect. Both promise to float servants high, as expected with their parentage.”
“Thank you,” Aloran said.
A round-faced boy started coming toward them, carrying a blue-feathered kanguan on his shoulder.
“You’ll excuse me,” said Min. “Find Grobal Tagaret at the back, sitting under the Great Grobal Fyn.” With a quick two steps away, he intercepted the boy with the kanguan. When he spoke again, all emotion had vanished from his voice. “Min, at your service, sir.”
“Come, Imbati,” said the Grobal boy. “You’ll serve us.”
Aloran could only watch, while an ache grew in the back of his throat. The boy’s gang surrounded Min, poking him from all directions, ordering him to the floor and back up again, then forcing him to hop over a tripping foot. Min’s professionalism was impressive—not only had he selflessly put himself at risk to redirect the boys’ attention, but he stayed calm through the entire thing.
Aloran wasn’t about to waste good information. He moved cautiously toward the back wall. There, the embroidered image of a young, prominent-nosed Grobal Fyn—the father of modern Varin—towered over his male descendants. Directly below the wall hanging, four boys lounged at a brass table, only one of them actually in a chair: a slim, long-boned boy with a classic Grobal nose and hair the reddish-tan color of sandstone. That had to be Tagaret. His posture was earnest, and a smile played on his lips. Perhaps his mother was like him . . .
Aloran dared a few steps closer.
“I found out there’s going to be another concert,” Grobal Tagaret said. “Tonight. On the fourth level, concert hall at Tesrel Circumference and Yinnari Radius.”
“You’re proposing we go to a Lower’s venue?” asked a boy with long hair, leaning against the table.
A dark-haired boy crossed his arms. “With the fever out there?”
“The fever’s not out there,” Grobal Tagaret said. “Speaker Orn never went to a Melumalai concert hall.”
“Then why should we?” the long-haired boy asked.
“Just to get away with it?” suggested the dark-haired boy. “For the reputation?”
“But nobody of any importance will be there.”
Grobal Tagaret’s cheeks flushed. “It’s for the music, Gowan. And I can think of one person who might go.”
A blond boy standing behind Tagaret laid one hand on his shoulder. “Copper and emeralds? Surely her parents would never allow her to defy the Kartunnen ban.”
“I have to see her again, Reyn. If there’s any chance at all—”
The dark-haired boy laughed. “Make sure to leave a few ladies for the rest of us.”
Grobal Tagaret snorted.
“Hey,” said Grobal Reyn suddenly. “Look at that Imbati watching us.”
Discovered. Aloran’s heart pounded, but he swallowed all expression off his face and humbled his head. Now he’d learn whether these boys were like the others.
Grobal Tagaret of the First Family stood up from his chair and approached. He was surprisingly tall—six feet at sixteen, far taller than any of the other three—but he wore it without apparent self-consciousness. “Imbati,” he said, “you must be a visitor. What’s your name?”
“Aloran, sir.”
“I find it interesting, Aloran, that you come wearing black and don’t offer yourself to our service.”
Aloran gulped. “My apologies, sir.”
“Wait, I know him,” said Grobal Reyn, walking toward them. “My sister has seen an Imbati Aloran. You should hear her go on: ‘Oh, his muscles! He could pick me up, just like a doll!’”
Grobal Tagaret flicked a glance at him. “That’s interesting. Thanks, Reyn.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulder, and Grobal Reyn leaned into his hand. Perhaps more than friendship was at stake between those two. “Sometimes I wish I could be Lady’s,” Grobal Tagaret said. “At least I could get close to the ladies.”
The other boys laughed.
Aloran hid a smile in his heart. Self-deprecating humor, and generous indulgence of a stranger Imbati’s attention—both very hopeful hints of his mother’s temperament. “Grobal Tagaret, sir,” he said, “if you will permit me to ask?”
“Yes?”
“Is your brother with you?”
The Grobal boy grimaced. “Aloran, Nekantor is never with me.”
Oh, dear . . . Aloran bowed low. “I have offended, sir. I beg your forgiveness.”
But Grobal Tagaret didn’t chastise him. “Aloran, you don’t want t
o know Nekantor,” he said. “Most people don’t want to know him, but Imbati particularly. He’s over near the door, if you’re bent on finding him. Dark jacket, looks a lot like me. In Benél’s crowd—but don’t get too close.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
Aloran took two steps backward before straightening from his bow. That had gone so well! He headed back toward the entry door with more confidence, weaving between the gangs. Despite the warning, he couldn’t leave until he’d found Grobal Nekantor. Family resemblance might show in both sons.
There.
The boy stood in a gang of almost ten who had waylaid Anin, one of his bunk neighbors. Grobal Nekantor’s physical resemblance to Tagaret was striking: a few inches taller, and he and his brother could have passed for twins. But there the resemblance ended. Even from afar, this boy felt—wrong. The other members of his gang were reckless and excited, but even standing still, Nekantor possessed more frantic intensity than any of them. An anxiety disorder certainly; maybe also something more. His eyes moved too fast, sharp and dangerous. ‘Don’t get too close’ seemed like very good advice.
Anin, pale-faced, tried to maintain composure inside the predator circle while Grobal Nekantor whispered into the leader’s ear. The leader pulled a kuarjos piece from his pocket and threw it at her. She tried to catch it, missed, and Nekantor slapped her across the face.
Aloran gasped.
The gang laughed as Anin tried to swallow her pain—and it got worse. The dangerous eyes leapt over to him. Though they were the same brown as Grobal Tagaret’s eyes, they still felt black. Aloran froze under them.
Grobal Nekantor left his group and stalked up, scowling. “You’re different, Imbati,” he said. “I don’t know your name.”
Aloran tried to speak calmly through a clamped throat. “I am Aloran, sir.”
“Come with me, Aloran. You’ll serve us.”
Chills ran down his back, but he bowed. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I am unable to serve you. I am of the Lady’s training, and I’m here doing research.”
Mazes of Power Page 3
