Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Research—ha! You’re not doing research. You’re just unwilling.”

  There was no appropriate reply.

  Grobal Nekantor snorted. “Come watch Anin. Watch how a real servant behaves, and then you’ll have your chance.”

  Mai help him, he couldn’t let Anin suffer it again. He blurted, “I can offer to braid your hair, sir.”

  That gave the boy pause, but only for a second. “My hair?” he demanded. “My hair—Benél!”

  That hadn’t been the best idea. The gang diffused and recoalesced around him. At least Anin was able to slip away.

  The lead boy’s eyes were blue, and blunt as fists. “What, Nek?”

  “This Imbati said he could braid my hair. How dare he try to play a game with me! How dare he speak to me as if I were a girl!”

  “Are you trying to play a game with your superiors?” the leader demanded. “Speak, Imbati.”

  Aloran bowed again, as humbly as he could. “Your pardon, sir. I am of the Lady’s training. I am here for research, but I am unable to meet a gentleman’s needs.”

  Grobal Nekantor narrowed his eyes.

  The leader grabbed Nekantor by the back of the neck and gave him a little shake. “Come on, Nek, it’s a waste of our time if he’s for ladies anyway. He probably has a girl’s brains.” The other boys laughed, and the gang’s attention shifted. Aloran moved away fast, but he could still feel Grobal Nekantor’s gaze burning his back as he left the hall.

  Once out of the School, he ran through the grounds and back to the Plaza of Varin. The crowds had diminished, opening a gap at the center of the plaza where the glowing white trunk of a shinca tree emerged rootless from the rock and warmed the air all around. Its steady invulnerability soothed his panic. He stared up at the shinca’s bright column, which vanished among stalactites and atmospheric lamps on its way to the surface five levels above.

  How could two brothers be so different? What if the Lady was like Nekantor instead? Why had Eyli allowed him to observe these boys if she knew it would just confuse him?

  Something was clearly wrong in this house. Only the Lady should have mattered, but she was out of reach, unable to show him whether she was kind or merciless. Were money and prestige reasons enough to pursue this?

  But he had to. If word got back to the family that he’d abandoned the interview, their bad word could ruin him.

  Aloran forced himself into a breath pattern. Think—the real problem here was lack of information. Eyli divulged so little; chances were good she was under oath of silence. Could she have granted his unusual request purposely, to circumvent her oath? If he appealed to her directly, perhaps she might do it again.

  He returned to the Academy, steeling himself for the risk. He entered the Hands classroom with deliberate force, startling Eyli up from the Hands Master’s chair. “Eyli, sir, may I ask you a question?”

  She’d opened her mouth to greet him, but now she hesitated. “What sort of question?”

  Aloran forced himself to say it. “Are you under oath of silence regarding me?”

  Eyli stared up with piercing eyes. “Answer me first. What did you learn at the Grobal School?”

  “That this branch of the First Family is full of contradictions,” he said. “That Lady Tamelera is kind, and that she is angry. That she is brave, and that she is anxious. That she loves others, and that she drives others away.”

  “Aloran, sit down.”

  He obeyed and discovered that Eyli was sitting, too. She didn’t take the Hands Master’s chair, but sank down on the mats instead. Everything about her manner had changed.

  “I am under oath,” she said, in a voice full of pain. “But I will tell you what I can. The most important thing is this: our inquiry was not initiated by my Mistress, but by Master Garr, who has just been appointed Speaker of the Cabinet.”

  That was disturbing. “Her partner, sir?”

  “Garr is callous. He knows nothing of my Lady’s needs, but believes he cares for her well. He likes to surprise her. I do everything in my power to stop him, and yet I fail.” Her voice quivered. “In the matter of my replacement, Master Garr coerced my silence, saying that if I broke the oath he demanded, he would not permit me to participate in selecting the best candidate. He made me return to Pelismara a day early, and lie to my beloved Mistress when she asked why I must leave her alone with him. Even convince her it was no trouble for me.”

  “But it is trouble for you,” Aloran said. What emotion her Mistress brought forth in her—it was mortifying, yet strangely stirring. This woman had known the perfect love of mistress and servant. In the face of that, who could remain untouched? “I wish I could know her as you do.”

  Eyli gaze-gestured apology. “She often speaks generously with me about her feelings, but I can’t speak to how she will treat someone new. I advise care; she doesn’t demand the oath of silence often, but she expects it as a rule.”

  “My heart is as deep as the heavens,” Aloran said. “No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”

  Eyli nodded. “If I’ve been rude to you, it’s because the two previous candidates were so precisely what the Master would have wanted. I was trying to protect my Mistress from you, Aloran. But you’ve defeated me. You already know more about her than you think.”

  Aloran shook his head. “Sir, I’m sorry. I was merely guessing.”

  “As you were with my health assessment?”

  “That was different, sir.”

  “I don’t think so.” She looked at him gravely. “In order to reach my Mistress, you will first have to pass review with Master Garr. Say anything you need to in order to satisfy him, but beware of his manservant, Sorn. Sorn is very much his master’s man.”

  Aloran stared at her. Triumph and confusion whirled inside him. He’d passed. She was asking him to move onto the next step—and the job had just moved to Pelismara. But did he want it? If the sons were opposed to one another, and so were the parents? “Sir,” he said. “I haven’t decided . . .”

  “Please,” Eyli said. “When the Master contacts you, please consent to his review. I’ve loved my Mistress since she was born. I don’t know how I could retire if I weren’t sure she was getting the best. This much I can promise: if she accepts you, she will protect you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Breaking Rules

  The scariest part of Tagaret’s health check had been his examiner: the Health Master of the Imbati Academy, built like a cave-cat, with whisper-gentle fingers and eyes like iron under her bodyguard’s tattoo. The one time he’d looked directly into her face, he’d become certain she knew every detail of his evening’s planned disobedience.

  You couldn’t ask someone like that to hurry up so you could get on with it. When at last Imbati Serjer escorted her out of his bedroom, Tagaret followed to the entry vestibule and stopped Serjer before he could disappear back behind his small door.

  “Serjer? I’m going out to a concert, all right? I’m already late.”

  Serjer nodded. “Master Ziara has cleared you, young Master.”

  Was that all? Thank the gods for Serjer—by this point, Imbati Das would already have been issuing demands. “Thank you. It’s . . . on the fourth level.”

  Serjer nodded. “Sir, if you are concerned for your safety, may I request the address?”

  Tagaret took a step backward. “My safety, at a concert? You’re not expecting another fever scare?”

  “Pardon me, sir,” said Serjer, “but there are no venues frequented by the Pelismara Society on the fourth level.”

  “Oh.” This was about the Lowers, then. “Well, it is a concert hall run by Melumalai. But there will be Arissen, right? Guards or police?”

  “Arissen would be unlikely to let merchants hire them, sir. It’s possible a few might take interest in music.”

  “Would Imbati go?”

&
nbsp; The crescent cross rose between Serjer’s eyebrows. “Music lovers, perhaps, sir.”

  But no one marked to the family. “Kartunnen musicians are no danger.” Tagaret shook his head. “Venorai laborers—no, they wouldn’t go, would they?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir,” Serjer replied. “If they did, they would keep to their own groups.”

  “The Melumalai who run this won’t get paid if people aren’t safe, will they? How dangerous are people who want to hear a symphony?”

  Serjer bowed. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  And there was still one caste left. “Akrabitti?” He frowned.

  “I can’t imagine they’d risk their safety just for music, sir.”

  “What? Their safety?”

  Serjer leaned his head to one side. “Young Master, I believe you said you were late?”

  Oh, no . . . Tagaret almost bolted right out, but stopped himself. “Bless you, Serjer. Please protect yourself while I’m gone.”

  Rather than wait for the Imbati of the Conveyor’s Hall to lower his skimmer’s control column for use by a seated driver, Tagaret hopped into the footwell as an Imbati driver might, punched buttons, and took off with a tight grip on the handlebars. He had a lot of scandal to court tonight before Father could stop him! After nightfall, the ramp to the fourth level was a bright spine of limestone rising out of the dark neighborhoods; he swerved onto it so fast that the skimmer’s leading edge chipped rock before its repulsion plates could adjust position.

  Not just late, but very late, gnash it—what if he missed The Catacomb?

  At the top, he punched through the tunnel of reinforced rock that converted roof to floor and shot down Yinnari Radius. These neighborhoods felt more cramped than the fifth level, because buildings of only two stories nudged up against a cavern roof that bulged low overhead.

  The intersection at Tesrel Circumference was a roundabout, in a spot where the cavern roof abruptly curved higher. The large concert hall stood at its center, built around a shinca tree. Cylindrical stone walls and a domed roof showed it to be a converted church of the Celestial Family; it advertised its current function with garish neon tubes in the shape of orchestral instruments. Tagaret parked beside a statue of Heile the Merciful playing the foot-drum and pipes. Not a single Arissen was to be seen. He ran in through automatic glass doors into the deserted foyer, then looked around in shock. Inside was worse than outside, all glass and mirrors and painted steel. The place reeked of the new money of the Melumalai merchant caste.

  Tagaret approached the box office, where a young female Melumalai panicked at the sight of him and bolted from her seat. A moment later a merchant emerged from a side door—most likely the proprietor, since he had large golden chrysolites set into his silver castemark necklace.

  “May the reign of His Eminence Indal extend a thousand years!” he exclaimed.

  This man clearly didn’t realize that nobles didn’t need the formalized greetings Lowers used among themselves. “Ah, mm, Melumalai,” Tagaret said. “I’ll need to purchase a ticket—and I’m looking for three friends. Are there other Grobal here tonight?”

  The Melumalai grinned. “There are six, including yourself, sir! No need to purchase. Your friends have taken care of it.”

  “Thank you.” But six? He shivered to think of two pairs of eyes, possibly Family enemies who might report them for breaking rules. If Sirin’s hand was kind, though, could those two be the girl and a companion? “Has The Catacomb played yet?”

  “No, sir. It will play after intermission; if you would be so kind as to wait . . .”

  “I’d never interrupt the music.” Tagaret moved away, pushing past a velvet curtain into the curving corridor that wrapped around the central hall. Spirit globes still hung from the ceiling here, commemorating departed souls; they and the marble statues created an atmosphere of strange solemnity. A wysp drifted along the passage. It illuminated first a statue of the holy Lovers, Sirin the Luck-Bringer welcoming home Eyn the Wanderer; then the Twins, Trigis the Resolute embracing his despairing brother Bes the Ally amid the desolation of ice—

  And then the figure of a Kartunnen, who stood by the side doors, listening.

  Could it be? The same Kartunnen boy he’d seen talking with her? A thrill ran through him. “Kartunnen?”

  The Kartunnen gasped. Just a boy, really, not much older than he was, but the fellow quivered as if torn between hiding behind the Twins and running for his life.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tagaret. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’re terribly kind.” The boy, whose lower lip was painted light green as if he were a member of the orchestra, spoke in an extremely precise and cultured voice. He had long reddish-blond hair pulled back, showing a shiny burn scar on his left cheekbone. Even his nose was intriguing—prominent enough to belong to one of Tagaret’s own cousins.

  Tagaret swallowed. He was breaking the ban. Muckwalking. And she had done exactly this! “The music,” he said. “When I think of the complexity, the ineffable inspiration . . . I don’t know how you do it. Is it the blessing of Heile on the Kartunnen? What’s your secret?”

  The boy blushed. “I—well, in fact, sir, I don’t know why I can do it.”

  “Seriously?” It was like being served an empty plate. Tagaret opened his mouth to ask more, but the hall doors opened, and a strange crowd pushed them in different directions. Melumalai wore solid browns, greens, purples—at least ten unregulated colors topped with caste necklaces of silver and chrysolite. Kartunnen had painted lips and wore fanciful patterns underneath their variously styled gray coats. They all seemed at once colorful and drab. Tagaret couldn’t place what it was they lacked until he returned to the modernized foyer and a cluster of Imbati parted before him. That was it: the shimmer as they moved. Tillik-spider silk evidently was expensive enough to sift Higher from Lower all on its own.

  It had certainly sifted his friends. Reyn stood with Fernar and Gowan in a clear space amidst the crowd, the three of them glowing in suits of ruby, topaz, and sapphire, laughing amongst themselves. Tagaret joined them with relief.

  “Hey,” he said, thumping Reyn on the back. “Sorry I’m so late; the check kept me back.”

  “Ours went fine, obviously,” Reyn said. “How was yours?”

  “Well, they let him out,” said Fernar. “Guess he’s not going to die.”

  Tagaret shuddered. “Yes, you’re stuck with me. Checked by the Health Master herself.”

  Gowan hummed in amusement. “Who did you expect? Imbati Aloran from today’s play session?”

  “Ha, ha, Gowan. Have you seen anyone else here tonight?”

  “Lowers,” Fernar grunted. “This is some serious muckwalking. We’ll be lucky if we get any reputation at all.”

  Reyn looked up at Tagaret and winked. “It’s not all bad, though. They have a bar.”

  The bar stood opposite the box office, a gaudy construction of mirrors and brass, tended by Melumalai. Tagaret said, “You know, Fernar, they’d probably sell you anything you asked for.”

  Fernar broke into a grin.

  Tagaret led them toward the bar, scanning around him as he walked. Lowers, indeed—Father would have a fit if he could see him now!

  Suddenly a vision emerged from the hall: luminous as a goddess, her hair braided into a high crown that exposed her perfect neck, her gown shimmering in diaphanous green. He hissed in a breath. “Copper and emeralds!”

  The others glanced at each other.

  “Are you sure about this?” Gowan asked. “Sixth Family?”

  Reyn shrugged. “Gowan, it’s not like he’ll actually get anywhere with her. He’d end up on the floor first.”

  Don’t think about that. Tagaret set his teeth. “Reyn, can I get you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Fernar laughed.
“Ooh, Tagaret wants a girl! Go, Tagaret.”

  Fernar could laugh all he wanted, but this was serious. They were way out of bounds right now—this was a real chance to get close. And with Father coming home tonight? He’d be a fool not to take it.

  Of course, he had to go to the bar first. Order something innocuous; if she came any closer, she mustn’t see him drinking anything with a suggestive name. Lowers cleared the area as he approached. He placed his expense marker on the counter before a nervous-looking Melumalai.

  “Vitett Ice, no liquor—uh, two of them, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He tried to keep his eyes on the Lady, but he couldn’t help noticing that the Melumalai bartender didn’t mix a Vitett Ice anything like members of the Household did. He jittered and danced—his style was so distracting that by the time the Melumalai returned his marker and handed him the drinks, she was gone.

  Gone! He scanned the crowd, holding the chill stems tightly. Could she have left? Or gone back in? Oh, by Sirin and Eyn, how could he have taken his eyes off her?

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said a deep, smooth, Imbati-sounding voice behind him.

  He turned. She was here, her eyes half-veiled by long demure lashes but still a perfect match to her dress, a single lock of copper hair trailing down in front of her ear, her hand resting delicately atop her escort’s closed fist. Fernar liked to say that beauty from afar meant flaws close up, but he was so wrong. She was a miracle, the very Maiden Eyn descended from heaven.

  Tagaret wrenched his eyes off her, forced them onto the escort who had addressed him, and managed to say, “Good evening, Imbati.”

  “If you will permit me to introduce myself,” the escort suggested.

  “Please do.” His heart raced. Gods, would he really learn her name?

  “I am Della’s Yoral, of the Household of the Sixth Family.”

  Della. He couldn’t help but glance, and found her looking up at him with intense, curious eyes, white teeth gently biting at her lower lip. Instantly, his heart was thumping hard enough to leap right out of his mouth. He struggled to look at her Yoral.