Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  “Thank you very much, young man.” Herin preened and puffed, then turned to Father. “She grows and grows, and makes no complaints. The child moves. It bodes well.”

  “May Heile and Eyn keep them both,” Father said.

  “Excuse me, Herin, sir,” said Tagaret. “May I offer you a seat and something to eat?”

  Nekantor looked at his brother. Unexpected—and not a bad move. That would keep the power near them longer.

  Herin chuckled. “I don’t mind at all, young Tagaret. Thank you.”

  The fluster was awful. Father shouting, Imbati scurrying, guests moving about making noise—oh, the chaos! Nekantor breathed hard. The patterns of power in the room broke and churned. It made his chest hot, made him want to scream—but that wasn’t a good move. Nekantor clenched his fists. He backed to the wall and stared at his watch.

  Yes, the watch. It was gold, with a polished circle of glass on top, gleaming and perfect. Perfect, perfect, and it counted seconds one by one, pulling his eyes into its slow pattern while tick, tick fell like ripples into his mind. He let go his fists. He touched the buttons on his vest, top, middle, bottom. He straightened his cuffs, looked back to the watch. Tick, tick . . . better, better. He would not scream. He would stay in the game.

  The noise of fuss slowly diminished. Nekantor glanced up and back to the watch. Cataloged the glimpse in his head: a pattern of guests, Heir, Father, Tagaret. Not too much motion. Tick, tick . . . Safe enough. He sneaked between the skirts and suits to a place beside Father at the Heir’s right hand. A cushioned brass chair had been brought for the Heir to sit in. Herin held a mushroom pastry, and gold sparkling yezel in a crystal glass. He was gold, all gold. Attention ran down the crowd to him and he drank it with his yezel, in sips.

  “Garr, my compliments to your Household. The food is delicious.” He beckoned to Tagaret. “Young Tagaret, I have some advice, in return for your kind invitation.”

  Tagaret took a step forward. “Yes, sir?”

  “Always be careful of accepting gifts or favors.” Herin looked out across the crowd. “When you accept a gift, you accept an obligation along with it.” He lifted his sparkling yezel, and toasted the guests, who aahed and murmured because they did not have power.

  And now, for accepting his gift, they all owed him.

  That was well done—Herin made his game of favors look easy. He accepted the offer of food from Tagaret, but he cast aside obligation to Tagaret by thanking Father. Easy to thank Father, because food became insignificant before the favor of murder which outweighed all others. Herin then singled out Tagaret to award advice and won obligation from the entire room.

  But—strange weakness—the advice the Heir gave was to teach his own game. Only a fool would drop jewels where anyone might pick them up.

  His loss. It was a good game, and easily learned. Nekantor scanned the room. What kind of favor might snare Amyel of the Ninth Family, or Caredes of the Eighth, or Arbiter Erex? What favor might the Heir himself accept? And what about Father?

  Something about giving him Tagaret as a gift.

  An ugly memory. Nekantor caught it and closed it in his fists: Yril, in a headlock, making stupid excuses to Benél.

  But not just making excuses. And not stupidly. Yril had been playing the game of favors, right under Benél’s nose. Failing his coup, he’d try to win obligation from the boy who had power.

  He’d failed there, too. Benél knew his own cousins better than that.

  But Yril. How dare he? A headlock was insufficient—he must be taught a lesson before he tried again. Before he caught Benél alone, with no one to explain things to him. There were plenty of reasons why Yril deserved punishment—and Grenth, too, who’d followed him. And Pyaras also, for making the whole gang look weak.

  Nekantor growled in his throat.

  Father growled louder.

  Was he being scolded? He looked up, but Father wasn’t looking at him; he’d been clearing his throat to speak.

  “Herin, I must say, when I first heard that Orn had met misfortune, I wasn’t sure if I should leave Selimna, but you’ve certainly made it worth my while. It’s a pleasure working with you.”

  Herin obviously didn’t like it. He smirked at Father out of the corner of his eyes. “A pleasure, indeed,” he said, “but you’ve missed something, Garr. It wasn’t misfortune that Orn met.”

  Nekantor grimaced. He had that information on Orn. Orn had met a Kartunnen whore.

  The crowd in the room shuffled and tittered. They’d listened, toadying to please Father, and when the Heir turned a countermove, were caught in the struggle. Nekantor scanned around, but the other cabinet members were nowhere to be seen—too afraid to get between the big players. Now they would miss the fun of watching.

  Father shrugged. “I’d say Kinders fever was misfortune enough for any man.”

  “For all the Race, you mean.” Herin handed his yezel to his servant and stood, looking around at the crowd. An interesting move: now he’d claimed the crowd against Father, and they shivered under the power radiating from him. “Those Kartunnen know they’ll survive infection, so they think nothing of risking us with their negligence. It’s more than irresponsible. It’s criminal! Don’t you think someone should teach them a lesson?”

  Father scowled. Amusing, how he hated to be topped. More amusing was how useless Tagaret was—he’d conceded completely, dropping his face into his hands. Father would never do such a thing. Two more seconds, five at the most, before he’d turn his own countermove. Nekantor waited. One, two, three—

  Garr stepped into the Heir’s circle and stood by his side. “Certainly, Herin. But who would do it? I’ve spoken with the police. They say it’s a licensed establishment and they have no grounds to close it. No grounds! Who would dare teach them a lesson after that?”

  Herin tossed his head. “I would—if it didn’t mean such a terrible risk to the nation.”

  An idea struck, so perfect that Nekantor laughed out loud.

  Faces whipped around to stare at him. In the silence, a lady tittered. Then the entire crowd burst into laughter.

  They thought it was a joke? Nekantor threw his head back and laughed harder. Fine, let them think so if they wanted!

  Really, it was an opportunity.

  The Heir and Father both wanted those Kartunnen whores taught a lesson, or why bother with this competition of rhetorical questions? It was all posturing. Oh, oh, who would dare teach the filthy whores a lesson? Who, indeed? There they both were, eyes only for their own power struggle, stupid for this moment to one simple and obvious fact:

  They were both asking for a favor.

  Nekantor walked out of the party, to his rooms. He circled, touching, checking, making sure nothing was out of place. But when everything was perfect, he didn’t stop pacing. He watched the moves unroll in his mind. Go get Benél; go get Losli, and Losli would fetch the others. Take skimmers down to the Kartunnen neighborhood. Yes, this would be a good game.

  He had to wait until the party guests left; Father would never let him go out before dinner. Frustrating, but it did give him time to plan. When his dinner plate was perfectly empty, he left the others at the table and went back to his rooms. He put a wire and a fresh handkerchief in his pocket. He walked out again through the empty sitting room where the Imbati had tidied away the party. Now the game could begin.

  The first move was to get Benél.

  It wasn’t easy to go out. Nekantor went into the vestibule. He counted buttons on his trousers, his shirt, his vest, three times before he dared to touch the door handle. Remember, it wasn’t really going out alone; he was going straight to Benél’s, and Benél’s suite was only fifty-seven paces away. He held his breath and dived out.

  He walked fast, breathed when he had to. This was the hardest part: just get to Benél’s. Wall curtains could hide assassins—he touched each one
as he passed by. Fifty paces managed now. Fifty-five.

  He rang the doorbell, then banged on the door, and snapped at the Imbati who opened it.

  “Let me in. I’m here to see Benél.”

  “Sir,” the Imbati said, bowing, “I’m afraid the family is still at dinner.” Maddening creature, he stood on the threshold, blocking the way to safety inside.

  Nekantor growled. “Let me in, gnash it!”

  “Sir—”

  “Remeni, it’s all right, I’m finished.” Benél’s voice, beyond the curtain. The idiot servant bowed away.

  Benél pushed through the curtain. Benél was here: the first move of the game, done. Nekantor gulped air. It was all right—Benél was powerful, and his powerful hand came, grasped the back of his neck, shaking gently. “Hey, Nek.”

  “Hey, Benél,” Nekantor said. He was always safe with Benél, and Benél was smiling at him; it felt very good. “I have a project for us, tonight.”

  Benél nodded. “Sure. Do we need the boys?”

  “Yeah.”

  So the second move of the game was to get Losli.

  They walked together to Losli’s suite. Benél’s hand stayed tight on his neck all the way. Losli was small and fast, with the heart of a follower and a good head. When they told him they’d be hitting the whorehouse, he frowned.

  “What about Arissen?” he asked. “If your dad and the Heir want this done, does that mean they’re getting the police out of the way?”

  “No,” Nekantor said. “So you’ll be lookout, Losli. You’ll warn us when the Arissen come near.”

  Benél grunted. “Arissen should be the ones getting this done; not us. They’re bigger and stronger.”

  “They won’t, though,” Nekantor said. “They said they had no grounds.” He shuddered. The whores presumed to contaminate their betters—that should be grounds enough. “But if we do it, then it’s a favor for Father and the Heir both.”

  Losli pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need fists for this. Definitely Tindamer and Dix, but I don’t see how we can get along without Grenth, and that means bringing Yril, too. After today, I’m not sure.”

  Nekantor nodded. “They need to be punished.”

  “Grenth won’t be able to stop Arissen,” Benél said. “Not if Pyaras can fold him over, Nek.”

  Losli slapped his forehead. “I didn’t mean Grenth should fight Arissen . . .”

  But maybe he should. Nekantor grinned. “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  “It’s perfect. Grenth and Yril will help us get our job done, and then when you give the alarm, Losli, tell them last.” Who knew that Arissen could be so useful?

  Losli nodded.

  “What about Pyaras?” Benél asked. “He can’t start thinking he can humiliate us in public.”

  Nekantor licked his lips. Maybe Arissen could be useful again. He sighed dramatically. “But, Benél, didn’t Pyaras’ strength impress you? He’s so big, it’s—it’s unrefined. Makes you wonder if his blood is really of the Race . . .”

  “Nek,” Benél said, starting to chuckle. “No one humiliates like you.”

  So that was the second move done, and by the time they’d finished the third—fetch the others—and the fourth—take skimmers uplevel to the Kartunnen neighborhood—the entire gang was laughing about Pyaras the little Arissen. Yril and Grenth laughed loudest. They were angrier because Pyaras had turned their coup on them. Nekantor didn’t need to laugh, just leaned close to Benél’s ear as he drove. Delicious anticipation bubbled in his stomach. Passing the Arissen insult to Yril and Grenth had been an excellent move. While laughing, they trusted, and thus they opened themselves for their own reward.

  “All right,” said Benél, pulling their skimmer to one side of the narrow road where the whorehouse stood. “I’m parking here. Jiss and Losli, here behind me; Dix, on the other side of the door, Grenth and Yril behind him—and Tindamer and Drespo at the back.”

  Nekantor extricated himself hesitantly from their seat. This Lowers neighborhood was all one thing or all the other: the broad circumferences were mostly sidewalk, covered with disarranged furniture and pointless statuary that made his skin crawl; the radius streets were narrow with no sidewalks at all. And now the door of the establishment had no number. It itched at him.

  But it would be all right, because Benél was here. He was safe with Benél, because Benél was powerful—and together they had a game to play. Now that they were here, the first move was to get in; the second, to sweep through the open spaces; the third, to identify doors to be unlocked or broken; the fourth, to deal with the inhabitants behind . . .

  Benél climbed a pair of steps and knocked on the unnumbered door, which swung inward. Nekantor followed him in—then stiffened. He tried to retreat, but the others piled in behind.

  The entryway was a high-ceilinged room with no corners, and tiny bright lights hanging at random heights above. Every curved surface fluttered with glittering shreds of cloth, as if there were a fan somewhere, blowing across them so they never stopped moving. Wrong, all wrong! No place to rest his eyes except on the two women, and they—his stomach twisted—they were crossmarked.

  He tried to breathe, shallow breaths with no air in them.

  “Welcome, Gentlemen.” The woman who spoke was dressed in green velvet, presuming to imitate a Lady. Her breasts were bare, and her nipples stared at the walls like rock-toad’s eyes. The other had assumed an Imbati appearance, with a false tattoo painted on her forehead. When he tore his eyes off it, he discovered her sheer black dress hid nothing.

  “Benél,” he whispered. “Benél!”

  “Go!” Benél shouted. He jumped at the disgusting creatures and knocked them down. They screamed. The boys charged. Nekantor was knocked to one side and another, and then they broke through a door behind the fluttering and disappeared into the space beyond.

  Nekantor stood, trying to breathe.

  The fluttering wouldn’t stop, closing in on him with every breath. There was screaming. The gong-metal sound of doors hitting walls. Crashing and breaking. He couldn’t find his buttons or his watch.

  Losli ran in. “Nek, come on! We’ve got some doors that won’t open.”

  Nekantor tried to answer.

  “Nek, you all right?”

  He should go with Losli. There was a game to be played. There was a wire in his pocket. But the fluttering, and the filthy Lower females . . .

  Losli ran out. A minute later he reappeared with Benél.

  Benél was here.

  Nekantor gasped, “Benél . . .”

  “Come on, Nek, we need you.” Benél’s hand came, grasped the back of his neck, and pulled him through the fluttering wall into a long, curtained corridor. Doors swung open at intervals, with fighting inside. More screaming. Benél brought him to a door that was shut.

  Locked.

  Yes, doors must not be locked. There was sex behind this locked door. Nekantor knelt and put his wire into the lock. It was an easy lock, no harder than Tagaret’s seven locks ago. A scraping, and he twisted the wire, and then a click—ohh, so satisfying.

  The door swung open.

  The room within was a riot of multicolored cushions—no place to rest his eyes except on the two men. Both stood on the defensive. A tall, broad-chested one with gleaming skin and muscles took shelter behind a smaller, slighter one, who held a pillow over his parts with one hand.

  “You will not come in here,” said the small man firmly. “In fact, if you do, I will personally make sure each of you fails to achieve a career in politics.”

  Politics?

  Slowly, Nekantor dragged his eyes from the nude body of the male prostitute onto the small man’s face. Almost unrecognizable from this afternoon.

  Erex, the Arbiter of the First Family Council.

  “S-sir?” Benél stammered.
“What in Varin’s name are you doing here?”

  “My business here does not concern you, young Benél,” said Erex. “Stay away from us. I won’t let you touch him.”

  “But—”

  Erex’s voice quavered slightly. “You may consider that I have my hand upon your school records at this moment. Your father would be very disappointed if you were to fail again.”

  But his hand wasn’t on school records. Nekantor knew where it had been. On the body of the man who stood behind him. The thought made his jaw tighten and his stomach burn. “Varin’s teeth . . .”

  “Close the door, young Benél,” said Erex.

  Benél closed the door.

  Nekantor stared at it—no relief. The knowledge of sex writhed and squirmed in his head. The chaos of destruction echoed all around. Panic climbed his nerves. He turned to look at Benél. Benél’s face was perfectly familiar; yes, he was safe with him. “Benél,” he murmured. “What do we do now?”

  Benél shook himself. “Never mind that room, Nek. There are more.”

  He didn’t want more. He wanted Benél to grab him and shake him. “Benél . . .”

  Benél’s hand came, not on his neck this time, but tight around his shoulders. “Stay close to me.”

  They stumbled down the debris-strewn hall. Doors swung open and shut. A whore crossmarked in Arissen red fled from one of the rooms with Tindamer pounding after. Drespo appeared with a rip on the shoulder of his jacket.

  “There’s another locked door down this way,” he said.

  Benél pulled Nekantor there. Nekantor didn’t want to open the door. The door was locked. He set his teeth and tried to turn away from it, but it was locked, and it reached hooks into his mind. A locked door. The door must not be locked. If he unlocked it . . . sex . . . but it must not be locked.

  His hand shook as he put the wire into the lock. Twisted.

  The door swung open.

  The walls of this room were black, all black, hung with shackles and straps of dark leather. In the center of it stood a woman whose naked skin was marked with uneven black smudges. The only garment she wore was a dark gray hood that hid most of her face.