Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  Aloran shook his head. Years of dry lessons on caste decline and demographic pressure turned ugly when they became real. Imagine her, having to stand constantly amid Grobal Garr, Tagaret, and Nekantor. How could anyone survive in that position?

  “Kiit,” he said. “What should I do if they don’t reject me? What if they call me back?”

  “Do?” She turned to face him, wrinkles creasing her unmarked brow. “Aloran, you feel so strongly you’d risk your reputation to avoid these people?”

  His throat tightened. “I don’t know. What if it’s worth it?”

  “Then fail,” she said with a shrug. “Show emotion; trip; startle and drop something—whatever you must. You’re too good to be ruined by one refusal.”

  Aloran shuddered. If he failed to appear, the Academy would be blamed. If he deliberately underperformed, he could hurt his chances at another job. But if he took the position, he could end up corrupted just like Sorn, Mai forbid.

  “I’m not sure, Kiit,” he said.

  She gave a smile of sympathy and offered her hand, palm-upward.

  Oh, yes. Gratefully, he pressed his hand to hers, savoring the tingle of permission. He put his arm around her.

  Kiit switched off her reading light and began kissing down his neck.

  Apparently, she wanted more than comfort. Her first touch had already roused him; he didn’t suppress the urge, but undressed quickly and joined her under the coverlet. Kiit’s skin was smooth, and she pulled him hard against her. He drank her avid kisses. As she took him in, the evening finally released its grip on his mind. He thrust urgently, thoughtless of anything but her, holding his breath to take his climax in silence.

  Afterward, he turned to lie with his face toward the metal struts of the upper bunk. Kiit’s silken head rested against his shoulder, and he listened to her breath slowing naturally.

  Before long, Kiit’s bunkmate Jeris returned. She knew, of course. Jeris lay with her own girls; so did his own bunkmate, Endredan, who was chosen of Mai. Dormitory life was like that; everyone knew about everyone else. But they’d never intrude or gossip, because they knew what respect really meant.

  Thank all the gods he had been born Imbati.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Age of Choice

  It should have been a nightmare, except that it was true: Mother sobbing, on her knees beside her Eyli on the floor, and the old, faithful Imbati crying, too, clinging to Mother’s hands, begging forgiveness for the failings of her age.

  Tagaret hated himself for causing it. But he’d had no choice—or had he? Was it worse to hurt Mother with the truth, or to hide it? Either answer seemed to turn him into Father.

  He would never be like Father. Today he had to prove it.

  With grim determination—and quite a lot of one-handed buttoning—he dressed in his new suit. For safety’s sake, he asked Serjer’s approval; Serjer caught a button he’d missed, and reminded him that his first obligation wasn’t school, but his meeting with the Arbiter of the First Family Council.

  Right.

  It wasn’t so bad. Arbiter Erex was a good place to start—he might be stuffy and traditional, but he gave excellent advice, which was why the First Family had chosen him to safeguard the Family’s reputation into the next generation. Tagaret jogged inward across the central halls of the Residence and into the arched corridor on the east side, where cabinet members and Family Councils had their offices. The Arbiter’s small, intense manservant, Imbati Kuarmei, was waiting outside Erex’s door. She bowed, and let him in.

  “Tagaret!” Arbiter Erex said. “Congratulations.” He was only slightly taller than Kuarmei, and the thin hand he extended across his steel desk had clubbed fingertips—a symptom of his congenital heart condition.

  Tagaret shook his hand. “Good morning, Erex, sir.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this day. And you’re certainly looking the mature gentleman! Who’s the artist behind that handsome suit?”

  Tagaret smiled. “It’s from Selimna, sir. I’ll ask my mother for the name.”

  “So kind of you. Unfortunately, I don’t think it would suit me near as well.” Erex tugged his sober, amber-toned sleeves, and motioned Tagaret into the facing chair. “I know we must get you off to school, but this won’t take long. Here’s your new expense marker, if you’ll give me yours, so you’ll be able to purchase alcohol whenever it’s appropriate.”

  Tagaret couldn’t resist asking, “Not ‘whenever I like’?”

  “Seventeen is the Age of Choice,” Erex said primly. “I expect a young gentleman of your age to make good choices.”

  “I understand, sir.” He fished his marker from his pocket and handed it over. The one Erex gave him in return was darker green, with a Grobal insignia in the corner. “Thank you, sir.”

  “The good news is: no more homework, no more grades. However, you’ll only switch to half-time school attendance after you find an assistant position, either in the Pelismar Cabinet, the Family Council, or the Courts.”

  Confirmed: that was why Father had been introducing him to everyone. Mai knew Father probably already had someone all lined up, and would want credit for ‘surprising’ him. “Do I have any choice?” Tagaret asked.

  Erex smiled reassuringly. “A boy with your connections? In fact, your problem will be too many to choose from. Several parties have already expressed interest by asking to sponsor you at upcoming events. From the cabinet, Fedron you know already; also Doret of the Eleventh Family, and Caredes of the Eighth Family. There are others, but you might as well start at the top.”

  That was more helpful than Erex probably realized. It implied Father was making people compete for favor. So the decision might not yet be final. Doret was a cousin of Mother’s, but, unfortunately, also an old-friend-turned-crony of Father’s. Caredes, he had no idea—but who except Father’s allies would dare to express public interest? “Who are the others? Do any of them want to ask questions?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Is there anyone who actually listens to new ideas, or will they all just tell me what to do?”

  “They will teach you, young man.” Erex looked almost flustered; the way he laid his hand on his chest made Tagaret feel guilty for asking at all. He changed the subject.

  “All right, then, what about ladies? I can be betrothed now, right?”

  “Ah.” Erex tapped his blunt fingertips together. “Tagaret, I arranged a betrothal for your cousin Inkala just yesterday, but in fact, partnerships depend on the political success of the gentlemen who offer them.”

  Inkala was almost his own age. “Sir,” Tagaret asked, “how old was the gentleman you matched with her?”

  Erex sighed. “Young Tagaret, let me just say that finding an assistantship is your best step toward gaining the required status.” He offered his hand again. “Feel free to come to me for advice any time you need it. Oh, and I’m afraid I haven’t yet received your birthday letter from the Eminence; I’ll have my Kuarmei deliver that to you later today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tagaret walked out with a sigh. Alcohol was one thing, but he had zero chance with Della, and politically, it was a choice between Father’s friends and Father’s other friends. No choice at all.

  “Tagaret!” voices cried. “Congratulations!”

  Reyn, Fernar, and Gowan?

  His three friends grinned, pulling him forward into birthday hugs. Tagaret tried to pretend Reyn’s arms felt just like the others’, but they didn’t at all. He cleared his throat.

  “Wow, guys? How in Varin’s name did you find me here?”

  Reyn laughed. “Asked Imbati Serjer. Nice coat, by the way.”

  “What’s it supposed to be?” asked Fernar.

  Tagaret looked down at the mottled colors and shrugged. “Mixed fiber, I think.”

  “It’s the ocean.” Reyn ran one
finger down his sleeve. “My parents have shown me photographs.”

  Mother really did want to make a statement. “Wow, Reyn. Thanks for telling me.”

  “To business, then,” Fernar announced. “Tagaret, this way.” He turned back toward the central section, and Tagaret found himself being herded along by the other two.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “What kind?” When they entered the foyer that stood outside the Hall of the Eminence, Tagaret recognized a figure beside the golden statue of a former Eminence. “My cousin Pyaras?”

  Gowan coughed in surprise. “Not exactly.”

  “Happy birthday, Tagaret,” Pyaras called, in the high sweet voice that had now become incongruous. Pyaras was only eleven years old, but lucky in his blood—taller and stronger than most boys of fourteen. Everyone said he might make Heir one day.

  “Pyaras, what are you doing? Going to see Erex?”

  Pyaras’ strong dark brows knit. “No. Looking for you.”

  “Well, that’s sweet.” Tagaret went to him and clasped his cousin’s head against his shoulder. Pyaras squeezed back with the strength of a vise. “Oof. You came all this way just to wish me happy birthday?”

  “No,” Pyaras said. “I want to join your gang.”

  Tagaret glanced at the others. “Look, Pyaras. That’s nice of you, but it’s not a gang. These are my friends.”

  Pyaras huffed. “Just because I’m your cousin means I can’t be your friend?”

  “I didn’t say that; of course, you’re my friend.”

  “It’s just that we’re going somewhere right now,” Fernar put in.

  Pyaras scowled.

  “To school,” Tagaret reassured him. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  So they walked Pyaras to school, but there were things you couldn’t talk about with an eleven-year-old. Especially since today was boys-downstairs-and-girls-upstairs, and the first-floor corridor was humming with lascivious whispers about Speaker Orn and the notorious Kartunnen house. Calls for ‘punishment for whores’ made him want to cover his cousin’s ears. Pyaras was unhappy when they left him, but accepted a promise to see him after school. It was troubling; there must be something going on.

  “Sorry about that, guys,” Tagaret said. “We should get to class, too.”

  “Good idea,” said Reyn.

  “Let us know how it goes, Fernar,” said Gowan. He jogged away toward the end of the tile-floored hall, where bronze classroom doors were starting to clang shut. Reyn hesitated a second longer, and then followed him.

  Fernar grabbed Tagaret’s arm and pulled him into a curtained window alcove.

  “What?”

  “Shhh!” Fernar waited until the hall quieted, then whispered, “I found something for you. Her.”

  “Della?” His whole body flushed at the idea. “Holy Sirin, we can’t.”

  “Can’t we?” Fernar ducked out and bounded away toward the brighter illumination of the central marble staircase.

  Tagaret flung himself after. Fernar was fast; taking the steps two at a time, Tagaret barely managed to catch his coattails before they hit the top. “Fernar, wait, we’ll get in trouble!”

  “No, we won’t.” Fernar winked at him. “We’re not going to see her. We’re going to see Imbati Yoral. If you’re worried about being caught in the hall, then try to look short and female for a minute.”

  Right now he was feeling anything but female. Tagaret dragged his fingers off the stone banister, his blood humming from his head all the way into his toes. If he could just take one look into the classrooms—Della—but no, he mustn’t . . .

  Three doors down, Fernar steered him toward a large staff room with a circular window in its door. He’d only ever seen the place empty, but now it was filled with Imbati escorts, sitting here and there on sofas or chairs, most reading, but some actually conversing. He gulped.

  Fernar reached past him and knocked.

  Every head in the room turned; more than thirty tattooed faces looked straight at him.

  “Fernar!” Tagaret hissed. “What are you doing?” Oh, were they in trouble now! Or was he in trouble—probably none of them could see Fernar at all. He tried to scrape together something like polite calm as the nearest escort, a grave elderly woman, came to the door.

  “Yes, sir?” Obviously, evaluating him before deciding to turn him in.

  Tagaret stood as straight as he could. “I am Tagaret of the First Family,” he said. “If I may, I would like to speak with Della’s Yoral, of the Household of the Sixth Family. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Please wait inside the door,” she said. “With your friend.”

  “Thank you very much. Come in, Fernar.” He stepped across the threshold. Some of the escorts went back to their reading, but none resumed talking. At the back of the room, Della’s Yoral stood and came forward with a short bow.

  “If I find you have approached my Mistress alone,” he said, “you will never speak with me again.”

  “We haven’t,” said Fernar.

  Right, but Yoral would never take their word for it. Tagaret grasped at a random inspiration, and cleared his throat, imagining Imbati Serjer to find the pose, eyes up and one hand behind his back.

  “Della’s Yoral of the Household of the Sixth Family,” he intoned, “I extend my invitation to meet with you, and anyone who may accompany you, in the south vestibule of the Grobal School, this afternoon five minutes after the end of classes. Sincerely, Tagaret of the First Family.”

  He risked a glance and caught Fernar gaping, Della’s Yoral in what could only be called a strenuous effort not to look—something. Amused, hopefully, rather than insulted. The escort was silent for a painfully long moment.

  “Tagaret of the First Family,” he said at last, without a trace of humor. “Perhaps, instead, the north vestibule. My ability to meet will naturally depend upon the convenience of anyone who may accompany me, and thus I may not be able to respond properly to your invitation. Would this be convenient for you? Sincerely, Della’s Yoral of the Household of the Sixth Family.”

  “I accept your terms,” Tagaret whispered.

  “Then you will excuse me.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  It wasn’t until they were back in the shelter of their window alcove that the adrenaline caught up, and Tagaret started shaking. Had he really been that brave? Or stupid? Would Della actually come, or would she merely laugh? He fell back against the wall with both hands on his head. “Oh, great heavens!”

  “I can’t believe you!” Fernar exclaimed. “You looked just like an Imbati—I thought he’d kill us for the insult, and now you’re meeting him? You offer him a drink, and he lets Della talk to you? How do you get away with this stuff?”

  “I have no idea, Fernar. None. It’s the luck of Sirin, or something.”

  “Well, can I come with you, then, in case she has a friend?”

  Tagaret scoffed. “And break Yoral’s trust in me? Of course not. Fernar, I will tell you one thing: you have to make the Imbati happy.”

  “Are Imbati ever happy?”

  “Oh, come on. Of course they are.” Fernar had obviously never lived alone with servants. “Just promise you won’t follow me.”

  Fernar snorted a laugh. “Fine—I can’t wait to tell Reyn and Gowan about this.”

  Tagaret swallowed. Reyn wasn’t going to be happy at all.

  * * *

  —

  School was interminable. In spite of his guilt over Reyn, every thought of Della sent him into embarrassing swells of anticipation, drowning out the Schoolmasters’ lectures. When the final bell rang, Tagaret sprang up and wove northward through the press of exiting boys to the end of the corridor. Outside the first set of glass doors, he stepped against the wall, and glued his eyes on the
place where the marble stairs disappeared above the landing.

  Please let her come, holy Eyn, please . . .

  As the flow diminished, a hand tugged at his sleeve. Tagaret jumped. It was Pyaras, looking frantic. “Tagaret, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You promised to get me!”

  “I’m sorry, Pyaras,” Tagaret said. “It’s my fault—something came up.” Thank Sirin, they had a minute before the girls came down. Pyaras wasn’t like Fernar, but he could still cause Yoral to abandon the meeting.

  “I have to join your gang, Tagaret,” Pyaras said. “I have to—Benél’s boys are after me!”

  Tagaret looked at him hard. “Seriously? Nek would never threaten his own family.”

  “Not Nek,” said Pyaras. “It’s different boys every time, but always Yril and Grenth of the Twelfth Family. Please, they’re coming.”

  Tagaret glanced back through the doors into the main corridor. It was true; a group of boys was on its way, with Yril of the Twelfth Family in the lead. But he couldn’t afford a fight right now. Even if they didn’t get caught by the Schoolmasters, he’d lose his chance to see Della, and Yoral would feel sorely insulted. Maybe he could get Pyaras out of reach, then duck back in before the girls came down . . .

  But he’d broken his promise once already. And Pyaras was family.

  Tagaret set his hand on his cousin’s shoulder and braced himself as the double doors opened.

  “Heyy, Pyaraaas . . .”

  In stalked Yril, followed closely by his big cousin Grenth and the gang’s other two enforcers.

  “Hello, Yril,” Tagaret said firmly.

  Yril stopped and his eyes narrowed. Sizing him up. “Oh, hey, Tagaret.”

  “Any particular business you have with my cousin?”

  Yril’s eyes flicked furtively back toward the hall. He stood straighter. “What’s it to you?”

  Another gang member came in—Jiss, his name was. That made five of them, and trouble, except that Yril’s glance suggested something else was coming. Better keep him talking.