Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “I’m concerned for Pyaras, naturally,” Tagaret said. “Something I could help you with?”

  A reckless smile peeled across Yril’s gaunt face. “Maybe so. You’re looking lonely today.”

  “He’s not!” Pyaras cried before Tagaret could hush him.

  Yril laughed. “Little Cousin’s too big to shut up. Too bad he’s too small to matter.”

  Pyaras growled.

  But Yril was right. Reyn’s absence was a cold space at his back. Fernar’s physical strength would have been awfully welcome. Gowan was no heavy, but his connections made for effective threats, so at five apiece it would be about even. Right now, it was Yril and friends against the First Family—but maybe that was why Yril had targeted Pyaras in the first place.

  Tagaret put his other hand on Pyaras’ shoulder, holding him down. “Making a move on the First Family, are you, Yril? Testing your support by abusing a boy of eleven, well, that certainly shows your courage.”

  Yril said nothing; Grenth and the others shuffled feet. Another gang member pushed in, with a silver-eared limeret perched on his shoulder.

  Six to two—if these boys were all taking Yril’s orders.

  Tagaret scanned the exits. The gang already blocked the main hall; on the stairs he and Pyaras could be run down with no witnesses, but out on the grounds their humiliation would be public. He’d have to take a chance that Yril hadn’t yet consolidated his support.

  “Nekantor!” he shouted. “Ho, are you there? First Family! Benél!”

  Yril flinched.

  And the last three boys walked in.

  Benél strutted chin-first—he was no longer moody and quiet like before he and Nek teamed up. With Nek by his ear and a wiry fellow named Losli at his elbow, gnash it if he didn’t look just like Father trailing a pair of cronies.

  Benél looked around, frowning. “What’s going on here?”

  Yril made fists. “I’m just—”

  “He’s been roughing Pyaras,” Tagaret said loudly. “With friends. Seems unlike you to target a cousin.”

  Nekantor’s eyes sharpened in a way so familiar it made him sorry for Yril. “Ohhh,” Nek said. “Is this your ploy, Yril? You really are an idiot.”

  “I’ll show you who’s the idiot!” Yril snapped. The gang’s focus shifted, bodies taking sides. Tagaret relaxed his hands on Pyaras’ shoulders.

  Pyaras charged.

  “Pyaras, no!” Tagaret cried.

  Pyaras hit Grenth in the stomach so hard that the larger boy wheezed and doubled over. Shock splashed outward through Benél’s gang.

  Mercy, get out, get out, get out—

  Tagaret dived in, grabbed Pyaras under the arms, and dragged him backward through the outer doors.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  He swerved away from the Residence—that was too obvious a route, and without cover. Instead, he headed straight north, crashing across gravel paths and jumping short hedges. A quick glance showed Pyaras catching up, a furious Grenth some distance behind. Ahead, the arbors and fountains of the City Garden beckoned with a sound of water. His lungs started to ache. He dodged around the Safe Harbor fountain, a sandstone basin and pinnacle entwined in blue glass. Pyaras overtook him as he reached the Erin fountain; he pulled Pyaras down behind its drenched basalt mass and stopped, listening for Grenth’s footsteps.

  “I can’t believe boys! They care more about fighting each other than they do about anyone else.”

  That voice. Tagaret tried to force his breath quiet. That was the voice that sang shivering melodies in his sleep. Could he be imagining it?

  “Mistress, you made the right decision.”

  No, that was Imbati Yoral. And the presence of a bodyguard would easily explain why Grenth had broken off pursuit. “Pyaras,” Tagaret hissed. “Can you get yourself home from here?”

  Pyaras flashed a grin. “So am I in your gang now?”

  Varin’s teeth . . . “It’s not up to me.”

  Pyaras raised his eyebrows.

  “All right, I’ll talk to the others, but I can’t promise!”

  Pyaras’ lips twitched in amusement. He peered through the arbors, then nodded sagely. “Good enough.”

  Tagaret tried to straighten his clothes. The coat had stood up to the run better than he expected; he could only hope the shirt wasn’t a total mess. He walked out between the Peak and Selimna fountains. Della and her Yoral had just passed his position, heading toward the north grounds gate. Della must live outside the Residence, where the cavern roof was lower and the less well-connected families had their homes.

  Sixth Family, Gowan’s warnings nudged. Muckwalkers.

  But today, making his own choices mattered even more than it had before.

  “Pardon me,” Tagaret called. “Yoral—”

  The Imbati turned, fast as fire.

  Tagaret instinctively stepped backward. “I apologize,” he said fervently. “My younger cousin came under threat, and he ran to me. This put you in danger, and I’m sorry. I entirely understand if you decide you don’t wish to meet.” But please don’t hurt me . . .

  Della was watching him now. If he could just look straight at her, he would gaze all day. He turned his open hands to the Imbati, pleading silently.

  “Grobal Tagaret, sir,” said Yoral. “It appears that this morning, you came directly to me.”

  Tagaret nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  The Imbati took Della back on his arm, moving closer. In the corner of his eye, Tagaret could see her anxiously biting her lip. “You understand,” Yoral said, “that allowances depend entirely on context and company.”

  What should he say to that? His throat tightened at the word ‘allowances.’ He risked a glance—Della’s eyes came to his. Her vivid green attention sent a rush down his body. She smiled, soft lips pulling back over white teeth. If only he could shout it aloud in praise: Della, Della!

  “Tagaret,” she said.

  “Della,” he blurted. He couldn’t have stopped himself—it was hard enough keeping the volume down. He sneaked an eye to Yoral, but the Imbati now stood impassive.

  “He means,” Della said, blushing, “if I’m with friends, or my family, you have to talk to him, still.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  A wysp, drifting by the gate, cast glimmers in Della’s hair. She wrung her hands. “I’d been planning what to say to you,” she said. “But there were those boys, and I didn’t . . . I think I’ll get it all wrong.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.”

  She caught him with an intense look. “The Catacomb, Tagaret. You remember it?”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Neither will I. Can you tell me—” She glanced away abruptly. “Did you hate it?”

  Doubt whirled in his stomach. Had she hated it? But how could that be? She’d stayed to hear it out . . . “Uh, n-no,” he stammered.

  “Oh, thank Heile.”

  Seeing her shoulders relax was such a relief that his knees felt weak. By Eyn’s grace, he’d passed her test. “I’m awed by the inspiration behind a piece like that,” he said. “Kartunnen are so different from us. I wish I could understand how they do it.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  The intense look was back: that was a dare, an invitation to cross a line he couldn’t see. He shivered and leaned slightly toward her. “I love music. Sometimes I think—” His voice cracked. “What I mean is, do you think Kartunnen might have stronger feelings than we do? To create feelings in us so easily?”

  “I don’t think so at all,” she said. “But then, I’ve met Kartunnen Tromaldin.”

  Tagaret gaped. “You’ve met the conductor of the Pelismar Symphony?”

  Della retreated slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, please don’t be. You’re very lucky.” It was
Tromaldin whom Mother had met, back when he was playing lead shiazin and the concert series was only an idea.

  Della’s lips curved. “Well, I’ll remember that, if it seems likely to happen again.”

  Yoral glanced at his watch. “Please excuse us, sir. We’re expected at home.”

  “Of course,” Tagaret said. “Goodbye.” He looked at his own watch and panicked: birthday party in six minutes. He turned back to the Residence and ran.

  By the time he reached home, there were already voices in the dining room. He managed to cross the sitting room and lock his door without being discovered, flung himself into the shower, scoured dry, and with Serjer’s help, changed into the second shirt Mother had given him. Checked himself in the bathroom mirror—combed his hair—all right, ready or not.

  Warily, he cracked open his bedroom door.

  A man’s quiet voice spoke from nearby. “Tagaret, is that you?”

  Not Father; not Nekantor. That sounded like . . . “Arbiter Erex?”

  “Please excuse the intrusion,” Erex said. He cast a glance at the doors where the noise of partygoers seeped through.

  “Sir, are you feeling all right?” Tagaret asked. “I thought you said your Kuarmei would bring my letter.”

  “Oh, yes! I am well.” Erex smiled. “You’re kind to ask. In fact, I thought you might like my company at the party, since Garr has invited certain individuals I mentioned to you this morning.”

  “Individuals?” Gods, was Father putting him up for public auction? “It’s kind of you, sir, but no thanks—I’d like to handle this myself.”

  Erex nodded. “One warning, then,” he said. “Caredes of the Eighth Family is looking for you. You’ll know him by his eyes. Expect him to speak of the negative.”

  “I understand. Erex, will my father get mad at you for warning me?”

  Erex shrugged. “Not if you don’t tell him.”

  Tagaret laid his hands against the double doors to go out, but stopped and turned back. “What about Lady Selemei?”

  Erex’s brows pinched. “She’s not on the interest list.”

  “I mean, what I’m asking is, she’s family, so can I consider her an ally, like Fedron does? Or is Father right to think she’s a danger?”

  “Oh, an ally, most definitely.” He glanced to one side. “Still, don’t trust her overfar.”

  “Why not? What does she want?”

  Erex lowered his voice. “She has attempted to end ladies’ duties as we know them.” But then he smiled. “Not to worry, though; that was years ago. We’ve got her well in hand at this point.”

  Do you really? For an instant, Tagaret was tempted to tell Erex everything about the tea invitation, to beg for his assistance, but there was no time. Father was waiting for him outside these doors. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and pushed through.

  If not for Erex, he’d have expected mostly cousins in the sitting room. Instead, the space was as crowded as he’d ever seen it, with gentlemen and ladies both—no visiting manservants, though he spied both Serjer and Premel moving among the guests. Nek was here, too, showing no signs of the confrontation with Yril. He stood, as always, slightly to one side, wearing a disconcerting half-smile and not touching anyone.

  “Here’s Tagaret!” Father shouted.

  The room erupted into applause. There were cries of “Tagaret!” and “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you,” Tagaret said. “Thank you all for coming. This is a very big day for me—and I hear, also for my cousin Inkala, who was betrothed this morning.” The crowd applauded; from some distance in, Inkala waved gratefully. Not far from her stood Pyaras, and his father, Administrator Vull, who must have felt the occasion was special enough to step out of his bureaucratic work. And there was Caredes of the Eighth Family. Erex wasn’t kidding about the eyes—Caredes’ bulging gaze must indicate some sort of glandular condition. Beside him, Mother was showing her pleasant face, with only her severely braided hair to hint at the will required to maintain it.

  Tagaret sought Father’s glance. A frown had darkened his face, maybe in reaction to Mother’s Selimnar suit. The only plausible way to stop him was to control the topic of politics before he had a chance to. Tagaret cleared his throat as he turned back to the crowd. “I know I’ve got some important career decisions to make now, and I’m looking forward to talking to all of you individually. But before I do, I’d like to thank Father and Mother for coming back from Selimna.” He indicated them, and the crowd burst into applause, particularly Fedron and Doret, who had moved to the front. Father puffed with pride and inhaled as if to launch into his own speech, so Tagaret added quickly, “And special thanks to Mother, for giving me the music that kept me alive while they were gone. I’m planning to continue to support the concert series she started—I’d really like to see The Catacomb return to the Residence under more happy circumstances.”

  There was a burst of applause, enthusiastically led by Amyel, Gowan’s father.

  “All right, son, that’s enough,” Father growled, drawing closer. “On to business.”

  “You mean assistant positions?” Tagaret muttered back. “Shouldn’t we negotiate those privately with interested individuals, so we don’t look like Melumalai in front of our guests?” He met Father’s gaze, trying not to waver.

  Father narrowed his eyes, almost like Nekantor. “Fine, then. Let’s get started.” He pulled Tagaret toward the four cabinet guests. Tagaret kept his head up and apologized to the people they bumped as they went. He glimpsed Erex following at a discreet distance; also Nekantor, staying nimbly out of harm’s way.

  “Tagaret, congratulations,” Fedron called. “Nicely done, Garr, nicely done.”

  Right, of course, his age was Father’s doing.

  “Yes, indeed,” Doret of the Eleventh Family agreed, raising a glass of yezel that surely wasn’t his first. “The Race is grateful for your gifts of these two handsome sons.”

  What a pair of tunnel-hounds. Tagaret waved down Serjer, who with a sympathetic glance, offered a silver platter of food to the cabinet members. Fedron and Doret were quieter with their mouths full of lake-bass roe on crackers.

  Gowan’s father Amyel brandished a cracker in one hand. “Young Tagaret, I’m glad to hear you won’t be abandoning music,” he said. “The series is a worthy project and an excellent organizational experience if you increase your own responsibility.”

  He’d never thought about it that way. “Thank you, sir,” said Tagaret.

  “You won’t have time for that and your assistantship,” said Father. “Unless you’re offering, Amyel, and can allow him the time?”

  Amyel demurred.

  Caredes of the Eighth Family hadn’t taken any food; his bulging eyes scanned Tagaret up and down. “No diseases?” he asked.

  Thanks to Erex’s warning, Tagaret managed to smile. “No, sir. I’m well, thank you.”

  Caredes shook a bony finger. “That fever’s still around, you know. Anyone could die, any time. You, me, him—” He flipped his thumb at Amyel, who shrugged amiably. “Anyone.”

  “I’ll be cautious, sir. Thank you for the advice.”

  A stir began across the room. People pulled back, opening an aisle between Tagaret and the front entrance of the suite, where a tall man and his servant now stood under the awed stares of the guests.

  “It’s Herin,” Arbiter Erex almost sighed. “The Heir.”

  The Heir was worth staring at. His skin had a deep golden tone; his hair was two shades darker, and he wore it curled tightly against his head. In a gold velvet suit he practically glowed.

  “Tagaret of the First Family,” he said. “I bring your birthday letter from the Eminence Indal. Congratulations on your Age of Choice.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Playing Games

  Nekantor watched, his heart racing.

  Power hummed around Herin
, drawing every eye in the room. This, now—this was the real game. Nothing like Yril’s feeble attempts to play, abusing a boy so young it was practically a joke, trying to sneak support away from Benél. Yril had whined something about giving him Tagaret as a gift, but Benél had got him in a headlock, and then all the others came in line. As if Yril could give them supremacy against Tagaret’s gang—ridiculous. He couldn’t give them something they already had.

  The Heir took five steps into the room with his head held high and his glimmering shoulders thrown back. Nekantor sneaked forward, dodging skirts and suits, edging close enough to feel that electric power. Father shook Tagaret out of stupid paralysis and shooed him forward.

  “So, young Tagaret,” said the Heir. “Congratulations to you.”

  Tagaret bowed submissively. “Thank you, sir.”

  Now the Heir’s servant produced the letter from the Eminence Indal, and the Heir handed it to Tagaret. See the power rub off on the eldest boy of the family, letting him share the center of the room? That was Father’s doing; only Father could have swayed Herin to come to this party. Meanwhile, Arbiter Erex stood off to the side gaping like a cooked fish. Erex would never stand in the center of a room.

  Benél could have, if he were here. He would know how—Benél was powerful.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Herin,” Father said. Garr, the second-best player in the room. The very fact that the Heir stood here was his victory. Garr and Herin shook hands, their eyes locked, each man vying for the upper hand. The Heir was handsomer than Father, more perfectly dressed—so easy on the mind—but he broke away first. He pretended decisiveness in the release, but really it was weakness. Father knew he was owed, for the assassination that had put Herin ahead of all his rivals, and Herin knew it, too.

  “And who’s this?” Herin asked, turning so the power came warm as heat. Nekantor straightened in it. His bones hummed.

  “My second son, Nekantor,” said Father. “Nekantor, the Heir, Herin.”

  Nekantor bowed, smiling. He had information on Herin: the Heir’s partner has carried their second child to seven months, so it looks good. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “The Race awaits your latest gift, with honor for your partner’s endurance.”