“May your honorable service earn its just reward, sir. Your Lady suggests this piece.”
“Thank you, Kartunnen.”
Her intervention was well-timed, because the suit he’d chosen didn’t fit well across his shoulders. Unfortunately, the new suit was ostentatious. Black silk with a sheen of garnet-red—the romantic color of Sirin the Luck-Bringer—embroidered on the front of the jacket with a fountain of dark fire in shades of red, garnet, and black.
He gulped and put it on. It was impressively made. The jacket closed with hook fittings under his left arm, and had excellent pocket design including multiple invisible placements sealed with magnetic closures. It fit perfectly.
“Aloran,” Lady Tamelera called. “Come; let me see you.”
Now she asked to see him. He had to comply. He stepped out with head lowered, breathing a careful pattern to brace himself for her judgment. She’d never approve—she’d never want him so visible . . .
“It suits you,” Lady Tamelera said.
Aloran looked up. “Thank you, Lady.”
Her head was angled to one side, her eyes gently considering. “The fire was a risk, but it really does match your—” She broke off and blushed. “Well, your hair. Kartunnen, I’ll take this one; Aloran, you may as well just keep it on.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Safe in the dressing room, Aloran shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t argue with her eye for quality. He sorted through the pockets of the suit he’d worn and transferred two heavy handfuls of combat rounders into the lower pockets of the new jacket, where they stayed without altering the fit. His business cards went in an upper pocket. The medications he’d purchased fit in the inside pocket with a pair of treatment gloves, and the adrenaline delivery device slipped easily into a hidden pocket of the sleeve. Heile grant he wouldn’t need them, but now, three days after the Ball, the window of doubt would be closing fast. Folding his old clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
The fire pattern didn’t match his hair. It matched his Mark.
His stomach quivered with a sense of invasion—or was it division? How could Lady Tamelera have perceived his Mark as separate from himself? Yet he could hardly say that was not her right. He had nothing to hold back from her, not when those lines of ink carried her name.
Returning with her to the suite, he kept himself on high alert, watching every Grobal he passed for signs of ill health.
“Tamelera, where have you been?” Grobal Garr demanded as they entered.
“Out,” Lady Tamelera replied unrepentantly. She strode forward and clasped her son’s gloved hand; Aloran kept close in her wake. A small group of nobles had gathered, including young Master Tagaret, young Master Nekantor, Arbiter Erex of the First Family Council, and Grobal Fedron. Aloran silently acknowledged Sorn, Kuarmei, and Chenna—and his heart went cold.
Chenna’s crown of hair had been chopped off. She’d clearly rescued it from hideousness by a merciless application of scissors that left her looking like a soldier. Aloran managed not to look at Sorn again, but only he could have gotten close enough to violate her person. And if he knew to punish Chenna, then he knew.
“Well, Tamelera,” said the Arbiter of the First Family Council, “Tagaret insisted we wait before making any announcements, but I’m sure this will come as no surprise. Tagaret will take the stage today as the First Family’s candidate for Heir.”
The Lady tensed. “Tagaret, love—I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job.”
“Thanks, Mother,” the young Master said. “It’s making me pretty nervous.”
She laughed. “Me, too.”
“And me, in fact,” said the Arbiter. “Young Tagaret, your new bodyguard will be here momentarily, so make sure you get acquainted. I’ll go down ahead and see how arrangements are progressing for the event.”
“See you in a few minutes, Erex,” said Grobal Garr, rubbing his hands.
“Aloran, you may put away your things,” said Lady Tamelera.
“Yes, Lady.” With a knot in his throat, Aloran ducked quickly through the Master and Lady’s chamber into his own room. He scanned it carefully, and it appeared undisturbed—but might not stay that way. Leaving his old suit on his bed, he locked his Maze door before returning to his place at his Lady’s dawn-clad shoulder.
Lady Tamelera wasn’t standing as close to her son as she had been, because the Selection bodyguard had arrived. He was an Eminence’s Cohort man of maybe twenty-five, built like a crag of granite; his sheer physical presence created a respectful circle around them.
Guests had started arriving in droves—not a bad thing, since it would keep Sorn from acting against him openly. Young Master Nekantor, however, had retreated to the stone wall alongside Grobal Benél of the First Family. Even young Master Tagaret seemed disturbed by the general excitement.
“It’s just a bit overwhelming, I guess,” he sighed. With one hand, he shaded his eyes from nosy stares. “I appreciate you being here—Arissen Veriga, was it?”
“That’s correct, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I expect you’ll keep a close eye on him,” Lady Tamelera said.
“Absolutely, Lady,” Arissen Veriga replied. “It’s an honor.” The man knew his job well, because his eyes took in the entire crowd without missing the manservants. That personal attention, whenever it came near, felt like the hot crush of a steam press. Aloran began a breathing pattern, and even Sorn stiffened when the Arissen looked his way.
“Well, he makes me nervous,” a voice complained—that was the robust young cousin who had accompanied young Master Tagaret to the Accession Ball. “I hate Arissen.”
Arissen Veriga raised an eyebrow.
“Pyaras!” young Master Tagaret snapped, turning on the younger boy. “You don’t. Fine if you hate Nek and Benél for what they did, but you know nothing about Arissen at all.”
That was more petulance than expected from the young Master, but it was effective. Grobal Pyaras was shocked into silence.
“See here: Pyaras, this is my new bodyguard, Veriga. Veriga, this is my cousin Pyaras, who just happens to be too strong for his own good. It might help him if he knew what Arissen were really like.”
Arissen Veriga smiled and saluted. “When my duties allow, I would be happy to speak to you casually, sir.”
Grobal Pyaras flushed and looked at his feet. “Thanks, Arissen.”
“Veriga,” corrected young Master Tagaret.
“All right: Veriga,” said Grobal Pyaras. Tears came into his voice. “Tagaret, you know I didn’t mean it. I’m tired—I’m going home.” He shoved through the crowd and disappeared out the front door, just as a commotion of new guests arrived, including Lady Selemei and Ustin.
“Selemei!” Lady Tamelera called, moving toward her with open arms.
Young Master Tagaret gave an exhausted sigh.
The sound of it stopped Aloran’s feet and pulled him around to look. The young Master had his hand pressed beside his eye again, his weight resting on one back heel, and when he turned, there was something uncertain about the movement—a lack of balance. . . ?
Aloran held his breath.
No, no, it wasn’t possible. He had worn gloves during the entire Ball. And yet, there had been that short time when his father took them. Had he touched anyone?
Yes, he had. Reyn of the Ninth Family, Fernar of the Eleventh Family—and his cousin Pyaras, who had just left complaining of fatigue.
Aloran’s heart went frantic. If this was Kinders fever, he might have only seconds to act—but Lady Tamelera was moving away, and Arissen Veriga was on guard, not letting anyone get too close. Aloran tried to be invisible, moving slightly sideways to narrow the distance between himself and young Master Tagaret. Hard to evaluate the boy’s breathing just by watching him. What if he was imagining things?
Young Master Tagaret
wasn’t looking at Lady Selemei or the crowd around the door. He shifted his feet, and his balance tilted slightly past normal.
Aloran tensed, trying to right him by force of will. No, young Master, no . . . Oh, let this be something else—something minor—
Young Master Tagaret cleared his throat heavily and gave a cough.
So be it. If he was wrong, he would accept punishment, but anaphylaxis was final.
“Imbati,” said Arissen Veriga. “Is something wrong?”
“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Aloran said. He released the adrenaline device into his hand. “I wish to attend to young Master Tagaret. He may be ill.”
The Arissen frowned suspiciously. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Sir, the young Master—”
Master Tagaret made a wheezing sound; the Arissen turned away to look at him.
Now. Aloran spun past Arissen Veriga and lunged for the young Master’s leg, driving the needle in—and then the Arissen’s shoulder slammed into his stomach.
Breath gasped out of him. Aloran fell backward into a roll, but there was no point resisting. The room erupted into shouts and screams. The Arissen bunched fists in his jacket, lifted him, and shoved him into the wall. By the time he could breathe again, the entire room was in a fury, and the enraged Arissen was panting in his face, holding him high with his feet dangling.
“I knew it,” said young Master Nekantor’s voice from the back. “I knew that Imbati played games.”
Grobal Garr stormed forward with Plis’ own anger on his face. “You!” he shouted. “A traitor in my house!” Behind him, Sorn looked pleasantly surprised.
“Aloran,” said Lady Tamelera. “How could you?”
The dismay in her eyes was worse than the Arissen’s grip. “Lady, forgive me—the young Master is ill.”
At the center of the crowd, with his mouth open in an incredulous gasp, young Master Tagaret bent and removed the needle of the adrenaline device from his thigh. He never straightened. He swayed too far; then his long legs gave way and he collapsed on the floor.
“Tagaret!” the Lady cried.
Aloran felt an ache in the back of his throat. Why couldn’t he have been there to catch him? He didn’t want to be right—but the adrenaline alone wasn’t enough to account for a collapse, nor for the way the young Master struggled for air as he lay shaking, clearly unaware of the shocked gazes all around him.
Breathe, Master Tagaret. Oh, Heile’s mercy, breathe . . .
Lady Tamelera broke from her position and fell beside her son, her gown deflating.
Aloran cried, “Lady, don’t touch him!”
She looked up, straight into his eyes, and her face turned white. Then she gathered her gown in two fists and stood, with all the glorious stature of Mai the Right in battle.
“Selemei, take your party out, now. Arissen Veriga, you will release Aloran this instant!”
“Yes, Lady.”
The fists loosened on his clothes and lowered him. The moment his feet touched the floor, Aloran ran to his Lady, pulling on his treatment gloves and gathering the medications from his pockets. She looked at him, and for an instant he glimpsed terror and desperation, but then her armor closed again.
Aloran touched his fingers to the young Master’s neck. Grobal Tagaret’s pulse was racing—probably just the adrenaline—but already he felt hot to the touch. At least he was breathing, his face red instead of blue.
“Young Master,” Aloran said, “can you hear me?” It was no use. He’d never drink an oral medicine in this state—it would have to be the needle. He opened the vial in question and glanced at his Lady. She nodded, then raised her voice to the crowd.
“Everyone, we’re dealing with Kinders fever here. Fedron, please send Chenna to Administrator Vull’s to warn him Pyaras may be ill. Now all of you get out—and for your own safety, go straight home and wash before you go anywhere else.”
Chenna flickered out, fast as a flame. The Lady had done well to send Lady Selemei’s group out first; the rush that followed was punctuated with cries of panic but resulted in little more than bumping and shoving before everyone was gone.
Aloran rolled up young Master Tagaret’s sleeve, barely able to contain a helpless shudder at the sight of the blue veins in his arm. Give me another assassin instead; I swear, I’d take it! He clung to his training and delivered the shot. Heile grant he’d given it soon enough to blunt the worst of the fever spike. Now all they could do was get him safely to bed. He slipped his arm beneath the young Master’s shoulder and his knees, carefully supporting his head, and carried him toward his rooms. The Lady ran ahead and opened the door.
Grobal Garr thumped after them. “Tagaret, you can’t!” he cried. “Merciful Heile, what do we do now? I have to find Erex—where is Erex? We don’t have time to convene the Council!”
Lady Tamelera slammed the door in his face and fell against it, sobbing. “Council!” she moaned. “Who in Varin’s name cares about the Council at a time like this?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Players
When the crowd fled in fear, Benél tried to bolt. Nekantor felt the noose of panic. He grabbed Benél’s arms and held him pinned against the wall.
“Benél, don’t run—whatever you do, don’t run.”
Benél quivered under his hands. “But, Nek, Kinders fever!”
“No,” Nekantor growled. Behind him, people screaming and swirling, no control, no pattern. The tendrils of chaos were reaching for his back, and if Benél ran— Varin’s teeth! “Don’t you move,” he said. “You haven’t touched anyone. I haven’t touched anyone. If we move, we’ll get hit—stepped on—just don’t move!”
“But, Nek . . .”
Nekantor only held tighter, pressing his forehead to Benél’s until the noises stopped, and the chaos flowed away. Ripples jarred in his mind. He let go of Benél, straightened Benél’s collar and shirt where he had bunched it. Better—a little. He began touching his own buttons, but Benél’s hand came and grasped his neck, and a wave of power swept the ripples away. He managed a deep breath.
“Gods, Nek,” Benél sighed. “You were right. It would have been worse if we’d run.” He shook his head. “I still think we’d better get out of here.”
Father’s voice cried from farther inside the house, “—where is Erex? We don’t have time to convene the Council!”
“I want to see what the Council does now,” Nekantor said. “If we can beat Sorn down to the Hall of the Eminence, we can do Father a favor and inform Erex.” A smile quirked his mouth. “Benél—I told you Tagaret wouldn’t be our candidate!”
Benél gave a harsh laugh. “Yeah, I remember what you said. Not the way I’d have asked for it to come out, mind you. Let’s go.”
They ran down the halls. Of course, they might not actually beat Sorn, because they had to pass the security tunnel-hounds. Benél grimaced when one approached, but he didn’t change his stride. Nothing ever stopped Benél—nothing but the thought of Kinders fever—and they must stay together. He would have kicked the thing, but he couldn’t afford to be denied entry.
Guards stopped them at the entrance, more tunnel-hounds wriggling in their hands. Disgusting. Nekantor fixed his eyes on his Arissen. Her brows were straight, her helmet smooth and shiny, her hands strong, holding the tunnel-hound tight. It would be all right. It had to be: this was the proper order of things. A woman under the orders of the Eminence controlled the small dark creature. Dark creatures who belonged behind walls might be permitted to emerge, so long as they served the will of gentlemen. It would be all right.
Finally, the Arissen passed them in.
Nekantor stopped after only eight steps. He should have hurried on, but he could still feel the snuffling creature. He checked himself, straightened seams, and touched buttons.
“Sorn’s going
to beat us,” Benél said. “What’s wrong? Did you lose something?”
“No—” He shuddered. “I can’t stand tunnel-hounds.”
“I know what you mean.” Benél gave a half-smile. “The animals, either.”
Ah, to see Benél smile—it made everything better. Nekantor laughed. “Let’s try to make up lost time.”
Something was wrong in the Hall of the Eminence. Not just anticipation and gossip, but a bubbling, barely contained commotion that tingled on the edges of his nerves. Fortunately, the whole room was roped off into Family zones, with an empty aisle down the center. He ran along it, keeping his eyes on the carpet with its looping Grobal insignias. The First Family zone was at the front, right beside the cabinet members’ seating area, but for some reason Erex wasn’t there. When asked, not one of his exasperating cousins had any idea where he was.
Nekantor scowled and accosted the nearest guard. “Arissen!”
The man saluted. “Sir.”
“Where can I find the Family Councils?”
“In the ballroom, sir, but that area is restricted.”
“Fah.” Stupid Arissen—stupid security orders. Sorn would pass them, using the Lowers’ halls. They’d never beat him now.
“Right, of course,” said Benél, and leaned to his ear. “What’s the plan?”
The tickle of Benél’s breath sent a thrill of confidence down his spine. “We can still do this. Let’s run.”
He broke into a sprint, with Benél by his side. They arrived out of breath at the right-hand ballroom entrance.
“Arissen,” Nekantor said to the guards, “I must speak to Arbiter Erex of the First Family! I have an emergency message from the Speaker of the Cabinet, my father Garr.”
“Entrance is restricted, sir.”
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