Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “A pleasure, Yoral,” he said. “My name is Tagaret, of the First Family.”

  “The pleasure is mine, sir.”

  His turn; but what more could he say? “Thank you for saving my friend,” he blurted, then flushed. Far too personal in a place like this.

  Yoral inclined his head, and smoothly changed the subject. “It’s a wonderful concert, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Oh—oh, yes.”

  “Kartunnen Tromaldin has really brought the Pelismar Symphony to a new level, I believe.”

  Now that, he could agree with. “The shiazin section seems much more spirited under his direction.”

  “And in only two years at the baton.”

  Della nodded her own agreement, and for a split second it was as if he’d spoken to her. Words bubbled out of him. “I can’t wait to hear Kartunnen Ryanin’s The Catacomb—” He choked off the rest, but it rang in his mind. Can you, Della?

  “Certainly, sir,” the Imbati said. “Worth going out of your way for.”

  Tagaret tensed—but perhaps the Imbati meant no criticism, since he’d brought his Lady well out of her way, too. He sneaked a glance at Della and couldn’t tear himself away. He had to stop—but her smile, and oh, her eyes—

  Control yourself, or you’ll end the night flattened by an Imbati.

  Yoral said, “If the tone has sounded, perhaps we should return to our seats.”

  He hadn’t even heard it, and now she’d be taken away. Gods help him. “P-perhaps your Mistress would like a drink,” Tagaret stammered, “since I’ve kept her from getting her own. Vitett Ice—no alcohol, of course.” He offered up the crystal flute delicately, since any inadvertent touch could only upset the Imbati and ruin the whole thing.

  Yoral considered, with a glance to his Lady. “Thank you very much, sir.” He solemnly transferred the drink to Della. “Excuse us, please.”

  “Certainly, Yoral.”

  Tagaret rejoined the others, trembling. As they pushed through the main hall doors, Fernar jogged his elbow. “So, what happened?”

  “Her name is Della.”

  Fernar spluttered. “Her escort spoke to you? Lucky!”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  Gowan looked jealous but shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “You watch; more people will want your attention now that your father’s been announced as the next Speaker.”

  “I’ve been expecting it,” Tagaret admitted. But he would stay in this strange world as long as he could.

  The inside hall was broad, lit by recessed electric lights around a domed blue ceiling, and also by the shinca trunk he’d seen from outside, which was embedded in a side wall. Carved into the stone beside it was an image of Father Varin kissing life into the world; the matching image on the opposite wall depicted Mai the Right in male embodiment, guiding virtuous souls into the gentle hands of Mother Elinda, and sending evil ones to be gnashed in pieces by Varin’s fiery teeth. At the front of the hall, where the altar had once been, a curtained stage now stood. Tagaret took his seat in the front row as the lights dimmed; a cover slid over the shinca, revealing faint silver constellations in the dome overhead.

  Reyn touched his arm and whispered close to his ear. “You gave her my drink, didn’t you.”

  “Sirin and Eyn,” Tagaret swore under his breath. “I really did.” He could imagine her drinking it, the pale blue liquid slipping across her full lips and down her throat. It filled him with wanting.

  “Don’t worry,” Reyn murmured. “I forgive you.” His hand squeezed, and when Tagaret half-turned, Reyn kissed him at the corner of his mouth.

  Tagaret’s whole body jerked in shock. Vitett Ice sloshed over his fingers. What in Varin’s name? Had Reyn just. . . ?

  “You all right?” Reyn whispered.

  “F-fine,” Tagaret managed. But was he? His heart pounded, and shivers chased down his legs. He could see Della’s curious green eyes so clearly, and her lower lip, soft, with her teeth pressing into it—but suddenly he could also see Reyn, gazing at him in the dark of the garden. He took a gulp of Vitett Ice so large it pained his throat.

  The stage curtain rose, and the conductor took the podium. At first, his racing heartbeat seemed louder than the music. A whispering in the shiazin section was answered by a low rumble from the golbrum, and then the sound layered into complexities that reached into his guts and pulled. At the yojosmei, with his pale gray coattails hanging below the bench, Kartunnen Ryanin readied hands and feet at the keyboards. Silver light from the shinca broke over the orchestra, so clear that each instrument appeared distinct.

  The yojosmei turned feral.

  Indignant murmurs arose behind him, but now Tagaret’s heart pounded for a different reason. This piece changed the meaning of music. Its dissonant beauty enveloped him in layer after layer of darkness, burying him in the lightless adjunct caverns outside the city where he had no privilege, no power. Around him, he heard dripping water, the rattle of falling rocks, and the cries of an enormous crowd that wandered desperately, often fighting each other in the search for escape, but never finding it.

  Finally, the last melodic hiss of the shiazin waned and died. The lights came up, but still his mind lay buried in the heavy dark. The others clapped politely; Reyn nudged his shoulder. Tagaret set down his unfinished drink and stood up blinking. Much of the audience appeared to have walked out in protest, but Della and her Yoral were still sitting in the front row, only ten seats away.

  “That was—amazing,” Tagaret said.

  “Not exactly uplifting,” said Gowan. He rose and headed toward the exit.

  Tagaret nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Interesting,” said Reyn.

  It was more than that. It was shattering, like sudden rockfall. When they reached the main foyer, Della and Yoral emerged from another house door. Tagaret clenched his fists to will her closer, and as if she’d felt his desire, Della looked up. In her eyes he recognized the dark secret that the music had given them to share.

  And then, Yoral was approaching him.

  “Excuse me, sir. I presume you enjoyed the concert?”

  “Yes, indeed, Yoral, very impressive,” Tagaret replied. The others weren’t on polite automatic; only Reyn managed to keep himself from staring at Della. The Imbati raked steely eyes over Fernar and Gowan, and they caved in a step, pretending they hadn’t been looking, though they had been.

  The escort turned back to Tagaret. “I would be remiss not to thank you for your generosity, sir.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Tagaret said, not quite remembering what he’d done to deserve thanks. Then a motion snagged his eyes—Della’s fingers tightening over her Yoral’s knuckles. When he looked up, her soft, perfect mouth was opening.

  “The Vitett Ice is my favorite drink,” she said. Her voice melted over him like warm honey, melting him with it until he was liquid down to his knees. It felt like drowning. “What’s your favorite drink, Tagaret?”

  He glanced in panic at Yoral, but the Imbati was looking away. He had to answer her. “Th- the same.”

  “We must speak of this music sometime,” she said. “You and I.”

  Yes, oh, please yes! “I would love to.”

  “Good night, Tagaret.”

  “Good night—Della.”

  As she walked away, her name still tingled on his tongue. The others were staring; Fernar shook his head. “What a night for you.”

  Tagaret exhaled. Disobedience felt better than he’d ever imagined. “Don’t tell anyone I talked to her, all right?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a voice that wasn’t Yoral’s.

  Tagaret turned around.

  The Imbati who’d spoken wore a high-necked sleeveless dress in black with hints of blue, and kept her blonde hair in several braids to the front and back of her broad shoulders. He could hardly ha
ve failed to recognize the most famous Imbati in Pelismara, even if her Lady hadn’t been leaning on a cane beside her—smaller, subtler, in a gown of shimmering feldspar gray that accentuated matching strands in her tight-curled hair.

  Lady Selemei of the First Family, and her Ustin.

  Lady Selemei was notorious, a widow who had appropriated her late partner’s manservant, and used Ustin’s insider knowledge to become the first ever lady cabinet member. Father hated her for it—he said she’d stolen the seat meant for him.

  “Cousin,” Lady Selemei said, “did I just see you with a young Lady?”

  Oh, no . . . Tagaret shot a panicked glance at Reyn.

  Reyn drew himself up, tugging the hem of his ruby-red coat. “She approached us, Lady,” he said. “I think you’ll find your cousin was quite polite.”

  Lady Selemei smiled. “I’m sure you’re correct. May I speak with Tagaret alone for a moment?”

  “Certainly. We’ll wait for him right here.”

  “Then I’ll return him to you shortly.”

  Thank the Twins for Reyn. Reassured that he wouldn’t be dragged straight to the Arbiter of the First Family Council in disgrace, Tagaret followed Selemei and Ustin around the left side of the foyer. The Lady walked at a measured pace, her cane precisely placed with every other step. She stopped before a statue—armor-clad Mai the Right, female this time, subduing her belligerent brother Plis the Warrior—thereby claiming the deity’s penetrating gaze and infallible judgment for her own. Then she set both hands atop her cane and gave Tagaret a smile that made his ears burn.

  “I’m sorry, Lady,” Tagaret said. “I wasn’t trying to put anyone in danger. I dragged my friends here. I had no idea Lady Della was here until intermission, I swear by Sirin and Eyn. I only came because I had to hear the music.”

  “So did I,” said Selemei.

  He blinked. “You did?”

  “Surely you must remember that I’m a friend of your mother’s? I was surprised and pleased to see you here, and thought I might renew our acquaintance.”

  “Oh.” She had called on Mother, before; sometimes he’d stood by the gaming table to watch them play kuarjos, or keyzel marbles. But it seemed a lifetime ago. Why wait five years to approach him? He sneaked a glance at the deity, but Mai didn’t share any divine insight.

  “Are you excited to see your father again?” Selemei asked. “I imagine he’ll be offering you political opportunities.”

  Tagaret winced. “Not exactly. I hate politics.”

  “Dear me. Well, I meant no offense. I felt that way myself for a long time.” Her ironic, considering gaze was so much like Mother’s. Maybe she was sincere. Joining the cabinet, and keeping herself there, would have been hard work. Why would she have had time for an absent friend’s child?

  “It’s not you, Lady,” he said. “It’s just—no matter what you want to accomplish, you can’t escape the political spelunking. I’m sure you know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Everyone’s fighting to get on top, when they should be worrying about the Grobal Trust and our charge to care for Lowers. Not to mention the health of the Race. How can we sit idle while doom dangles over our heads?”

  “Precisely why everyone hopes this fever incident won’t bring on an Heir Selection,” Selemei agreed. She smoothed her skirts with one golden hand. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, but I’ve kept you from your friends too long. Do give my best to your mother. Ustin, please return him.”

  Thank all the gods. He found his friends wringing their hands in an anxious clump in the center of the foyer. Reyn stepped firmly between him and the Lady until she and her servant had left the hall. No one said anything until they reached the skimmers parked out front.

  “Is she going to get us in trouble?” Fernar asked.

  Tagaret shook his head. “I don’t think so. She was nice. She was a friend of my mother’s . . . before. I hope I didn’t upset her when I said I wasn’t interested in politics.”

  “Politics?” asked Gowan sharply. “What did she say?”

  He shrugged. “Asked if I was excited to have Father home.”

  “Oof,” said Reyn.

  “She wants something from you,” Gowan said. “Politicians always want something.”

  “But she’s family. And she isn’t like most politicians I’ve met.”

  Fernar laughed. “Of course not, Tagaret! She’s a Lady.”

  “Don’t let all that talk of ‘Lady’s politics’ fool you,” said Gowan. “She stopped being a Lady when she took a gentleman’s servant—and a gentleman’s place. I don’t imagine family means much to her if she can walk out on her own children.”

  That put an uncomfortable face on it. “Gowan, stop,” Tagaret said.

  “I told you people would seek you out,” Gowan insisted. “She knows the position you’d be in, in an Heir Selection. She’d know this was her last chance to prime you for influence before you came under your father’s protection.”

  “That’s enough.” Tagaret shuddered. Both the ‘position’ and the need for ‘protection’ were Father’s fault, and Father would be home in less than an hour. The thought made him want to just drive away—but there was no safe way out of the politics and distrust, just as there was no safe way out of Pelismara. Reluctantly, he accompanied his friends back to the level rampway, trying to think only of Mother.

  They checked in their vehicles at the Conveyor’s Hall, then walked back along the Grobal School to the Residence. Fernar and Gowan both lived on the second floor, so they went there first. As he and Reyn returned to the stairs, Tagaret sighed.

  “I’m not sure I want to go home, Reyn.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “That would be great.” Reyn would still be here, in spite of the change—thank the Twins. Downstairs in the first-floor hall, he added, “Thanks for saving me tonight.”

  Reyn didn’t answer. Tagaret glanced over his shoulder and caught him with a strange look on his face. At once, he remembered the darkness, Reyn touching his arm, and . . .

  He flushed, and his stomach tightened. “Reyn, what’s wrong?”

  Reyn pushed his blond curls out of his eyes. “I don’t want you being nice just to be nice.”

  “What?”

  “If you don’t want me with you, don’t pretend you do.”

  Tagaret blinked. “But I do—I mean, why wouldn’t I? Because you—” His voice failed.

  Reyn looked away. “You have that girl. Now your friends are just inconvenient.”

  As tense as he was already, mention of Della brought the wanting back in a flood. Guilt came with it. “Reyn, I don’t have her. You’re certainly not inconvenient.”

  “I was tonight.”

  “How can you say that? You kept Selemei from dragging me home in disgrace. If I could pick anyone to brave Melumalai with, it would be you.”

  Reyn glanced up. “That’s all very well to say.”

  “Have I ever lied to you? You had it right: it’s not like Della and I can go anywhere. I have no power, no position, certainly nothing my father would permit me to offer to hers. Sure, I want to see her.” To hear her voice again, to feel that rush that echoed in him now. “But it won’t change anything.”

  Reyn stared at him hopelessly. “Tagaret, it already has.”

  “How, Reyn? What has it changed?”

  Reyn grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him.

  Great gods! It felt so good—Reyn’s lips were his, then hers, confused and irresistible. Tagaret pulled him closer, and Reyn’s arms locked around him. Every unattainable dream pressed into a desperate, breathless instant.

  “Reyn,” Tagaret gasped, “if someone comes—”

  Reyn nodded. Tagaret slapped the glass recognition pad to unlock the door of his suite, and together they crossed the vestibule and sitting r
oom at a run, ignoring the First Houseman’s greeting. But as they entered the darkened drawing room, something moved.

  Tagaret smacked the light switch in sudden, choking fury.

  The lights exposed Nekantor, sitting in the corner by the entrance to the back-bedroom hall. There was no doubt what he’d been up to—messing with the door again. He hated it. He hated it! Anger strung his gut tight from jaw to belly—he hated the anger, too.

  “Nek! Leave my door alone!”

  Nek narrowed his eyes, conceding nothing, denying nothing. “You saw that Imbati today, Tagaret. He’s after us. He’s an information gatherer; he’s sent by Eminence Indal because he knows the Heir owes our father a favor; he’s going to hand us over to Arissen assassins.”

  Tagaret gritted his teeth. “Aloran’s no danger, Nek; he’s too young. He’s not marked to anyone’s service, so he can’t be sent.”

  Nek’s glance flicked away toward the window at the end of the hall, then returned. “He wants Father’s Sorn’s job—he knows Father is coming home, and he’s planning to knock him off, and take his place.”

  “Nek, if he were anywhere near certification, we would have seen him before.” Though he was old enough . . .

  Then it really struck: if Reyn’s sister knew him, Aloran was a Lady’s servant. Mother’s Eyli was getting old. But Mother loved her; she’d never send her away. Why had Aloran come to find them?

  “He wants something from me,” Nek said. “He doesn’t want to braid my hair.”

  Tagaret scowled. Why was he arguing anyway? Nek would make up his mind his own way, and would never take advice. He wasn’t stupid—he was abominable.

  Tagaret turned his back on his brother. “Varin’s teeth, Reyn. I’m sorry.”

  Reyn wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I should go.”

  “But, Reyn . . .” His stomach flipped. Reyn shouldn’t go—but what would happen if he stayed?

  “It’s fine, Tagaret. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

  “All right.” Mechanically, Tagaret walked Reyn out front and said goodbye. Then he ran to his room and locked the door.

  CHAPTER FOUR