“What kind of stupid question is that?” Nekantor demanded. Really, only one question mattered at all—the one that would show him a safe path to the center of the Selection. He tugged his vest and sleeves until they were straight. Shook off the idea of whistles, and spat out one question—not because it was a question for Arissen, but because it was the only question.
“The assassination attempts, Arissen. Poisoning, a sabotaged skimmer. Three shootings. A runaway skimmer. A knife in the leg. There’s a pattern.” He stopped in front of the first Cohort man. “What is the pattern?”
The Arissen stood straighter, but he didn’t say a word. Who would expect intelligence from Arissen? Intelligence wasn’t what they were for. Idiot Pyaras, why would he say to ask them questions? This was wasting time, when his interview with the Eminence was in less than an hour.
“Four, actually,” said Tagaret.
Nekantor turned and saw Tagaret—back tired, arms tired, legs tired—made a face and looked away again. “What did you say?”
“Four shootings,” Tagaret said. “I was targeted; Aloran got shot. It was the day after the Accession Ball.”
Nekantor clenched his fists. “Four?” Gnash Tagaret—four changed the whole pattern. Ripples moved outward, disturbing everything. Was there still a pattern? But there was one, there had to be, or there could be no way to see where the next knife might come. He paced to the dining room door, to the double doors into the drawing room, around the game table, and back.
Pyaras muttered, “I bet sixteen orsheth whoever shot at Nek is sorry they missed.”
One of the Arissen sniggered.
“Varin’s teeth, Pyaras!” Nekantor snapped. Pyaras liked to make Arissen laugh at him—Veriga and now this man, each with some kind of bet. He wheeled and pointed at the nearest man. “You!”
The Arissen jumped to a salute, right hand to left shoulder.
“You place bets, do you?”
The Arissen gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“And you two?” The other two stared into nothingness, silent. Unacceptable. “Answer, or I throw you out!”
The man and woman, in unison: “Yes, sir.”
Betting—money, filthy money! He should have slapped them, but didn’t want the feel of their animal sweat on his hands. He should have sent them all away, but new Arissen would be no different. Whistles . . . money . . . He had to have a bodyguard, now. He growled.
There came a sharp click of boot-heels: the Arissen woman snapping to attention.
“What is it?”
“Noble sir,” she said. “All the assassination attempts you mentioned were for violent death, except one.”
Nekantor narrowed his eyes. He peered past her perfect orange uniform. The woman’s skin was a dark shade of brown, the color of surface work. Guarding farmers before she learned to guard the Eminence, so she knew how to move up, to take power when it was offered. Whistles or no whistles, she was right. All attempts violent except one.
Nekantor sucked in a breath, and the pattern pulled in another piece: one single violent attempt on the First Family had preceded the others, and the single stealth attempt, the poisoning, had targeted the First Family also.
Understanding made his hands shake.
The assassin sent for Tagaret, and the poisoner sent after him, had been sent by the same person. A violent attempt preceding, a stealth attempt after. One single person, who had to have known enough, and been scared enough, to attack the First Family even before the candidates were chosen and their worth known. There was only one such person.
The Eminence Herin.
Nekantor circled the room again. Herin would never kill a candidate while they sat face-to-face—he might bend the rules, but he wouldn’t be obvious enough to get himself arrested for murder. The danger was before, and after. Especially after. Herin would lash out to cover fear or weakness, and the fear that had begun before the Round of Twelve would be worse now.
Seeing the pattern should have solved it, but now the pattern was clear, the traps visible, and the most dangerous one lay right before him, teeth open, impossible to avoid. How could he take a step? He couldn’t count on the Eminence’s assassins missing their mark a third time. Father knew this game better than any man save Herin himself. How dare he not be here?
“Gnash it! Gnash it!” Nekantor cried. Oh, how he wanted Benél—Benél would grasp him, shake him, cover him in power so none of it mattered!
“So, Arissen,” said Pyaras. “While my cousin’s busy panicking—which of you is betting on the Heir Selection?”
The three Arissen didn’t answer.
“Pyaras, don’t pester them,” said Tagaret.
“Well, you asked about whistles.” Pyaras giggled. “Seriously, not one of you has put a bet on the biggest competition in years? Who wants to bet me sixteen orsheth that Nekantor here becomes Heir?”
“Pyaras . . .”
“Sir,” said the Arissen woman with a smirk in her voice, “sixteen orsheth would scarcely buy me a glass of bad yezel. Besides which, only a fool would bet against him.”
That caught his ear. Nekantor stopped walking. “So which of you has bet against me?”
The first man flushed red. “I, sir.”
“Get out, then.”
Pyaras only laughed harder. “You’d actually bet on Nekantor winning? How much for?”
“Eighty orsheth, sir,” said the man who remained.
The woman’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Four hundred orsheth, sir. I’ve the note to prove it.”
Nekantor licked his lips, a sudden taste of insight in his mouth. Risk, and money: these were the weaknesses in the Arissen, a people who were supposed to have none. Veriga had bodyguarded well, but he did as he liked; because he took no risks, he was untouchable. This woman, who was in deepest, might be led. She might act as part of a larger plan—his own plan—to stop the other candidates.
“Your name, Arissen,” Nekantor said.
She saluted. “Karyas, Cohort First, noble sir.”
Nekantor smiled. “You’re with me, then, Karyas.” And to the other man, “You may go.”
Now he had a bodyguard. He’d played the right move without Father. A bodyguard was something, even against Herin’s threats. She could step into the teeth first. “I’ll speak with my Arissen alone,” he said.
“Fine with me,” said Tagaret. He climbed Pyaras’ arm to stand up.
At that moment, a muffled shout came from Father’s office. A strange Kartunnen with a medical coat and case burst out, flung herself across the gap between the office and the vestibule, and escaped through the front door. The vestibule curtain kept swinging—Nekantor twitched and turned away from it. Father’s fury echoed through the open office door.
“You presumed—how dare you try to weaken me! From now on, no appointments of any kind without my approval.” Now Sorn backed out of Father’s office with hands raised, and Father stomped out toward him, red-faced. “I am the First Family, and my success is your success.” He stood scowling while Sorn retreated behind his shoulder. “Nekantor, we’d better get picking a new bodyguard,” he said, then broke off. His clothes were wrong—rumpled on one side.
“Fix your clothes,” Nekantor said coldly. “It’s taken care of. I’ve already picked out my new bodyguard. Father, meet Arissen Karyas.”
“Nekantor . . .” Father grumbled. He snapped out his hand to Sorn, who placed his gray gloves in it; Father looked Arissen Karyas up and down while he put them on. “So, you did, did you?”
Father had accepted his move. Nekantor smirked.
Karyas saluted. “Honored, sir.”
“We helped,” said Pyaras indignantly.
Father laid his heavy, gloved hand on top of Pyaras’ head and ruffled his hair. Pyaras pulled away, scowling. What a baby—but he certainly could be useful with soldiers.
>
Tagaret said, “Father, any news? Have you heard from the Ninth Family?”
Father grunted. “Nothing yet. Gowan’s finishing his interview right now.”
“But what about Reyn?”
“No.”
“Have the Sixth Family contacted you?”
“Of course not!” Father snorted. “And I’m not contacting them. You’re hardly a good asset if you look half-dead.”
“Enough,” Nekantor said. “Father, we have to plan our strategy for the interview. Things have—”
“We have our strategy.” Father waved a hand dismissively. “You impress him, answer what he asks, but don’t give out any details of our planning. I remind him that he owes us, just by being there.”
“No.”
Father stared at him. “No?”
“Father, things have changed.”
Father’s face reddened and he clenched his fists.
Tagaret made an uncomfortable face; he and Pyaras edged out through the drawing room doors. This much hadn’t changed: stupid Tagaret would never learn to play politics when it was good for him.
Father’s gloved hand came to his shoulder, trying to grind his bones. “Nekantor, if you continue to disobey me, you’ll never survive Selection.”
“Herin is trying to kill me,” Nekantor said.
“Everyone is trying to kill you,” said Father. “That’s my entire point. Come on, or we’ll be late.”
Nekantor pulled his shoulder away, flicked off the glove-dimmed marks of Father’s fingers, straightened his vest and sleeves, trying to make it all right, to make it safe to go out. The first step outside into the hall was the hardest. But Karyas was here; she answered to him, not to Father, and she would protect him. Immediately, she recommended they stay away from the open curved stairways of the grand rotunda, where they might too easily meet a thrown knife. Good idea: that made it easier to walk. They climbed one of the small spiral stairways to the third floor, Karyas in front and Sorn behind. But the real trap was ahead; Nekantor could feel it yawning before him while they stood in the carpeted foyer outside the Eminence’s private library.
“That’s better, son,” Father said. “I’ve done this before. I know we’ll do just fine.”
Gnash Father, he was losing his edge. In seconds, the Eminence Herin would invite them in among the teeth. They’d be snapped, no question, if they dared remind him of anything. Nekantor’s heart pounded; he checked his trousers, his vest and buttons, straightened his sleeves. Not enough. He could feel Father beside him, smug and ignorant; he wanted to slap him, but that move would lose him the game. He took refuge in his watch.
The air moved. The Library doors swung open, and a deep Imbati voice said, “Grobal Nekantor of the First Family. The Eminence Herin awaits you.”
“Excellent,” Father said. Nekantor looked up: Father was making to walk in, as though the interview were his own. He must not go in. That move would bring the teeth!
“Stop!” Nekantor snapped.
Father’s face turned to him; his eyes held a shout he didn’t dare utter in such company.
Nekantor stood straighter. “I go in alone or not at all.”
Father snorted, as if it were a joke.
Nekantor shrugged deliberately and turned on one heel as if to walk away. Father didn’t even blink. Was Father’s resolve too strong? Would he actually have to leave? It made him sick, but he forced himself to step away from the doors. One step, two . . . oh, he couldn’t breathe . . .
“Oh, all right. Go in, then!” Father barked.
Nekantor opened his mouth and gulped air, a rush of power that made him dizzy. He snapped around and followed the Manservant to the Eminence without another word. This was better, oh, this was much better . . .
Then the chaos hit.
The Eminence’s private library was a nightmare. The carpet was the wrong shade of green, so deep it squirmed under his every footstep. Stuffed reading chairs were scattered randomly beneath glass light-globes that hung from bright white ceiling arches. Out of the back wall, a shinca trunk cast silver light at a bizarre angle. Bookshelves poked into the room from either side, creating little pockets of space where anyone might hide, and their shelves were mostly empty. Nothing lined up; nothing pointed anywhere or made any sense. If he hadn’t already been checking his watch, he might not have found it in time to stop the scream. As it was, he gave a strangled whimper and walked forward blindly until he bumped into the brass chair. He clutched the cold metal, feeling his way into his seat.
“Nekantor of the First Family,” said the Eminence’s voice from right in front of him. “Are you—well?”
“N-nervous,” he stammered. Stupid thing to say, but a better move than screaming and running out of the room. He had to be able to look up. He must look Herin in the eye at least once. Maybe just for a single glance? He lifted his gaze, found Herin—and stopped.
Ahhh . . .
Herin was perfect. How could he have forgotten? Poised in a chair, perfectly dressed in gold silk with sleek golden gloves on his hands and the drape of the Eminence around his shoulders, Herin was an island of stillness when all the rest of the room writhed.
Herin eyed him sharply. “You didn’t seem this nervous in the Round of Twelve,” he said. “Is it because your father hasn’t accompanied you?”
Aggressive question. Nekantor took a deep breath, trying to let Herin’s perfection waft stillness into his mind. How straight Herin held his back; how beautifully the four gold buttons shone on his coat . . . “My father—” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “My father was bothering me, Eminence. I didn’t want him in here.”
“Easy enough to say.”
“Well, your Imbati saw it, Eminence.”
A moment’s silence. Herin considering? “Your father is a meddler,” the Eminence said at last.
Four perfect points of light, glinting gold. “Oh, yes, sir,” Nekantor agreed, nodding. “He really is.” And yet, today he’d seized the game for himself.
Herin chuckled. Derision—or amusement? “All right, then, young candidate. Tell me, of you seven remaining, who is best suited to be my Heir? Whom should I trust in this position?”
Nekantor lifted his eyes to Herin’s face. “No one, sir.”
The Eminence smiled. His fine golden brows rose. “Really.”
Nekantor smiled. Now the vision opened up: he counted back along the line of candidates who’d stood by him in the Round of Twelve, removing the lost, and the dead. “Menni has intellect, and hides the spirit of a fighter behind his smile,” he said. “Innis will side with an enemy when he has to, but he schemes only for himself. Sangar is distracted by the needs of others. Gowan is too proud. I doubt Ower’s intellect, because he is too willing to imitate other people’s arguments. Yril is full of envy, and will try to take your power, because he has tried to take mine more than once.”
“And what about you?” Herin asked. “Will you tell me you’re the only one I should trust?”
“Of course not, your Eminence. You distrust me already, and so you should.”
“Really.”
“Because I will learn your game.”
“My game?”
“Always be careful of accepting gifts or favors,” Nekantor quoted. “When you accept a gift, you accept an obligation along with it.”
For a long time, Herin didn’t reply. Nekantor tried to cling to scenes of the past, but the present with its strange light began to nudge inward, and the chaos crept closer; he focused harder than ever on Herin, on the Eminence’s perfect posture and his gold spider-silk, his buttons, his noble handsome face.
When he looked at Herin’s mouth, it bent into a smile.
Wait—that was a pattern.
The more he stared, the more Herin smiled. Not only here, but at the party, and when Herin had spoken out of
turn in the Round of Twelve, attention was what Herin craved. He loved the stares, the sighs, loved to drink in an adoring crowd or wrap a powerful man around his sleek golden fingers. Father played the game of favors well, but he would never entirely win Herin because he’d never permit himself to be wrapped. A capable boy might threaten Herin as much as tempt him—only an adoring boy would win him over. Better yet would be a boy both adoring and malleable.
So the staring had caught Herin’s attention as the behavior of an adoring boy. What would a malleable boy do? Learn his lessons well, yes; also, give favors without hope of reward. Now, there was a move worth risking.
Nekantor looked down at his fingers, then up again to Herin’s smile. “Eminence, I have to apologize.”
The Eminence looked puzzled. “What for?”
“I’m sure you remember how Yril was caught in a raid on the Kartunnen house where the fever began—well, I must confess, I planned that raid myself.”
“What?” Herin shifted in his seat. “Are you trying to say we should have banned you instead of him?”
“Not really.” Nekantor couldn’t stop a smirk. “He was the one who got caught. Still, I’m sorry for the trouble he caused, since I planned the raid for you.”
“What in Varin’s name do you mean by that?”
“You were such an inspiration,” Nekantor sighed. “Orn had died of Kinders fever, but you weren’t afraid to expose yourself to social contact, and you weren’t afraid to tell the Society exactly what needed to be done. And when I realized you had the courage to act, but you were restraining yourself for the sake of the future of Varin, I couldn’t bear it. I had to do something.”
“Heh,” Herin said. “Did you, now.”
“And if it reflected badly on you, I’m sorry.”
The Eminence flicked a nonexistent speck off one knee. “Well, never you mind, young Nekantor. You have a lot of years to learn about how to do these things properly.”
Nekantor dropped his head and nodded. A lot of years. A lot of years! He did know how to play this game.
* * *
—
Of course, Father didn’t approve. As soon as they were safely home, Father grabbed his shoulder. “Nekantor, that’s the last time I’m letting you behave like a headstrong child. You’re throwing away votes right and left!”
Mazes of Power Page 29
