Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  Doross only shrugged. “If you really want us to believe the First Family will consider the demands of the Sixth, let your father come and tell us so himself.” He gestured to the servants. “Show them out.”

  Tagaret walked out numbly. That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

  Nek was visibly fuming but held his tongue until they hit the street outside. “Let your father come?!” he snapped. “Father doesn’t run me. I’ll show them, gnash it!”

  Tagaret looked up at the high wall of the house. With the street lamp glaring straight down into his face, it was impossible to see any windows. Chances were, none of them even faced the outside. Defeated, he approached his skimmer, but then something moved beyond the lamplight, at the corner of the nearest radius. He froze.

  The catlike Arissen man drew his weapon.

  A deep, smooth voice came out of the dark. “The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir. If I may, I would like to speak to Grobal Tagaret of the First Family.”

  Yoral. Tagaret grabbed the Arissen’s shoulder. “Wait, I know him. That’s Della’s Yoral of the Household of the Sixth Family.”

  The Arissen didn’t lower his weapon. “Can you trust him, sir?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tagaret, don’t,” Nekantor said.

  Tagaret ignored him and ran to the corner. Yoral bowed to him, and without speaking again, turned southward into the radius. Tagaret followed.

  The walls here yielded few windows, all of them dark and empty. Tagaret scanned the pools of orange lamplight along the radius ahead, but could see no one. “Yoral,” he murmured. “Do you have a message?”

  “Della wishes to speak to you, sir.”

  “She does?” His heart beat faster. “Where?”

  “In here.” Yoral stopped. Beside him was a dark opening between the outer walls of two adjacent homes—a space not even wide enough to pass two skimmers side by side. Tagaret peered in. It was instantly obvious that he didn’t belong there. The narrow dimness was vaguely reminiscent of the Maze at home, except this place smelled of rot.

  A shudder ran down his back. “What is this?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” the Imbati said. “We must use the back entrance of the house if you wish to approach unseen.”

  Behind him, Nek and the Arissen caught up. “Stop!” Nek cried. “Varin’s teeth, Tagaret, you can’t, that’s—that’s—” He made a choking sound and turned his back.

  “Sir,” said Arissen Karyas, “it’s the garbage access. The Akrabitti way.”

  On the day the assassin attacked, Aloran had told him Akrabitti had their own alleyways. His stomach rolled. “Della’s in there?”

  “No, sir,” said Yoral patiently. “She’s waiting in the house, near the back entrance. If you will permit me to escort you.”

  He swallowed hard. “All right.”

  He walked in, following Yoral closely. The looming walls of the homes on either side were festooned with dark tangles of cable and pipe; the ground was dry in places, sticky in others, and faint movements showed in the deeper shadows. He didn’t want to contemplate what might be in the glistening gutter that ran down the center.

  At last, a bright doorway appeared on his left. Stepping into the light of a laundry room, Tagaret realized he’d been holding his breath. He gulped in air.

  “I apologize, sir,” said Yoral. “Are you well?”

  Tagaret sucked air and nodded. “Are there many places like this?”

  The Imbati regarded him calmly. “They parallel every circumference in Pelismara, sir.”

  “I’m sorry.” His cheeks flushed, but this shame wasn’t his alone—it belonged to everyone who had watched the Lowers at the Accession Ball, applauding the Grobal Trust without seeing it complete. He understood suddenly how Aloran had circled behind the assassin at the clothes shop.

  “Sir,” said Yoral. “My Lady is waiting.”

  They left the laundry room for a luxurious hall, and from there passed through a white door. Della was here. Her radiance filled the tiny office within; it stole his breath differently from the fetid darkness. She was a marvel.

  “Tagaret!” she cried. “You’re really alive!”

  “Della . . .” His feet tried to rush to her. It took all his effort to stop them. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have dragged you back here, but I didn’t know how else to see you.” She came to him, picked up his hand, softly stroked the back of it. “And I had to see you.”

  A wave of warmth melted down his spine into his thighs. He glanced at Yoral; the Imbati had turned his back, but he didn’t dare take her in his arms. Instead, he lifted her fingers to his lips.

  “Look at you,” he murmured. “You’re as healthy as the day we met. I can’t imagine how I didn’t give you the fever.”

  “My parents and I are inoculated. Father arranges it every year, to protect Liadis.”

  “Then thank Sirin I didn’t touch her.” He shook his head. “Your father must be so angry with me. My counteroffer wasn’t good enough.”

  “Counteroffers!” Della pulled her hand away. “Don’t tell me about counteroffers.”

  The scorn in her eyes burned his heart. “But, Della, I had to—”

  “I hate Doross! Demeaning you, forcing you to bargain. And Father! Father lets him.”

  Tagaret shook his head. “It’s not your father’s fault,” he said. “Innis of the—”

  “Innis doesn’t know better. Father does.”

  “Surely he’s doing his best . . .”

  “Is he?” Her eyes flared. “He would do anything for Liadis. I thought it was because he loved her, but maybe it was because she had to be kept out of sight anyway. It’s easy to break the rules when nobody’s watching.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. He couldn’t deny it; here he was, doing what he was told, conforming to the rules of Selection. Without realizing it, he’d even lost hold of his plans to help ladies. And what had become of the bravery he’d felt out on the surface, that had shaken his world and made anything seem possible? He reached for Della’s hands, to stop him falling into the abyss of despair. Thank Sirin and Eyn, she took them in hers. “How can I help you, Della? What do you think I should do?”

  Della lost her certainty. So she did know it was impossible to escape the watching eyes of the Society. “Stop Innis,” she said. “That’s the first thing. Don’t let him make me his prize.”

  “And what else?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t care if it’s hopeless, Tagaret. Don’t play their stupid game. You know better.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. But what kind of courage would that take?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Fall

  Dirt in the dark, sticky shadows full of Lowers. The alleyway gaped at him from between the walls, the stinking mouth of some awful creature. Its breath reached outward, the sticky shadows reaching toward him like fingers.

  “Karyas,” Nekantor panted. “Get me out of here.”

  “Sir?” said Karyas. “What about your brother?”

  Tagaret had gone into it. Oh, gods, he’d gone into it, and he would come out of it wearing the creature’s breath, carrying the shadows— “Karyas, now!”

  The Arissen shot a glance at her friend, who shrugged and nodded.

  In that second, the tips of the sticky shadows touched, and clung.

  “Yes, sir,” Karyas said. She drove fast, but it was too late, too late, and the shadows crawled up his fingers, to his hands, his arms. They wouldn’t let go, even in the light of the Conveyor’s Hall, not even in the noble halls of the Residence. Oh, gods!

  He ran straight to Benél’s suite, banged on the door, and snapped at the Imbati who opened it, “Get me Benél.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” said the Im
bati blandly.

  He was allowed into the vestibule, at least. Seconds passed. Nekantor clenched his fists, struggled for breath, feeling the scream coming. The shadows tightened, crawling toward his shoulders, onto his neck. He whimpered aloud.

  Benél came through the curtain. “Nek?”

  “Benél,” Nekantor pleaded. “Touch me.”

  Benél shot a quick glance over his shoulder, but the Imbati had gone. He moved in fast—arms, hands, mouth. A shock of power, relief so overwhelming Nekantor could scarcely stand. The shadows were gone. He murmured, “More . . .”

  “Shh,” Benél said. “If you want to come in, you’ll have to stay quiet.”

  Nekantor shook his head. “Come out with me? Carefully, this time, mind you.”

  Benél’s eyes flicked to one side, toward the servant’s curtain. “Remeni,” he said, in a low voice. “I’m going out.”

  Yes, yes. Only fifty-seven paces left, and he took them fast. Benél didn’t touch him again, but they walked together. He could still taste power in his mouth. He slapped the contact pad of his own suite, and walked in.

  Father sat on the couch, facing him with Sorn behind his shoulder.

  Wrong. Something was different. The scratches on his face, they were . . . no, they were still there. He’d covered them with paint?

  “You missed an appointment,” Father growled. “You and Tagaret both. The Tenth Family was to meet with us tonight. Arrange an alliance. And just look what you’ve been doing!”

  “You have no idea what I was doing,” Nekantor snapped, but he could feel Benél take a step backward. He clenched his fists. “I was on Selection business, since you’re in no shape to go out. What do you think you are with all that paint, some kind of Kartunnen?”

  Father’s face darkened. “You’d better send that boy away. He’s stolen your face, and if you let him, he’ll steal your throne as well.”

  Suddenly, the front door clicked, and Tagaret walked in. Nekantor leapt sideways, away from the sticky shadows. “Stay back, Tagaret.”

  “Nek? Benél?” Tagaret said in surprise, and then his voice cracked. “Father?”

  Father lurched to his feet. “Gnash you both—where in Varin’s name have you been?”

  Tagaret answered stiffly. “We were negotiating for the Selection.”

  “You’re both idiots!” Father shouted. “I negotiate for the First Family! How many times do you think the Tenth Family will offer us that girl before they tire of our incompetence?”

  Tagaret turned bright red.

  Nekantor snorted. “So now it’s our fault? You’re the one who looks like he lost a fight with a kanguan.”

  “Enough.” Power, like boulders grinding. “Young Benél, you’re going home right now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Benél.

  “Tagaret, Nekantor, get to your rooms. From now on, you’ll go nowhere unless it’s with me.” Father wheezed and started coughing.

  Tagaret said nothing.

  Nekantor looked at Benél. That was not defeat in his eyes as he left; it was anticipation. Nekantor shivered but lowered his head. The capitulation move was called for now. That would get him to Benél sooner.

  “Yes, Father,” he said. Then he ran—ran before Father could catch his breath, before Tagaret could contaminate him again with the sticky shadows. He locked himself into his room and leaned against the door. Ran his finger along the crack between bronze and stone. From there, he moved to his desk, pushed on each closed drawer, and pushed in his chair. Checked the window shade—I’ll come back to you—ran his hand up the bed to the bedside table, tapped, one, two, three. Crossed to the wardrobe and pressed its doors shut, caressed its cool brass drawer handles. Then the bathroom door, the main door.

  Now he could go back to the perfect window shade, open it, and open the window.

  “Nek,” Benél called.

  “Come up,” Nekantor hissed.

  Benél’s hands came to the stone sill, and Benél vaulted up—fell back on the first try, but on the second, he stayed and wriggled in. Nekantor backed off into the center of the room.

  Benél picked himself up, brushed himself off. All disarranged. The sight of it set hooks in Nekantor’s mind, pulling his hands toward Benél’s clothes, straightening, but stroking, too. Oh, Benél was very strong. Nekantor breathed hard, feeling power grow in his stomach. Perfection felt very close now.

  Benél moved behind him. Benél’s strong hands came over him, electric with power. Nekantor watched his vest buttons come undone, three-two-one, and Benél pulled the vest down off his shoulders and twisted it around his wrists. Jerked him backward, up against Benél’s body hard and insistent. Nekantor gasped in relief and delight, and turned, and found Benél’s mouth for a kiss—a hot push of permission. The rest of the buttons went very fast, nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one. Benél shoved him hard, down onto the bed; pulled his arms up over his head; pushed his legs apart.

  Nekantor lay limp and breathless. Anticipation skittered across his naked back. He listened for Benél.

  Benél stalked behind him, breathing like a cave-cat, a promise of violence. Power, it was all power! He could feel it now, and it would pound him, penetrate him, echo inside him until there was room for nothing but that perfect relief—no shadows, no Fathers, no brothers, no buttons. Ah, perfection, how could he wait?

  “Benél, please.”

  The cave-cat pounced.

  Screaming pleasure filled his body, his mind, until everything was Benél, and there was nothing else.

  Nothing left.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  —

  When Nekantor woke, his body was nerveless, his mind empty as a drained glass. He drew a slow breath. Sighed, “Benél.”

  Benél had stayed over. His hand slid under Nekantor’s hip, pulled him into a curl, and the strong arms wrapped around him.

  “My brother is useless,” Nekantor sighed. “He made the stupidest offer imaginable with the Sixth Family yesterday. No wonder they didn’t believe us. He should just jump in a crevasse.”

  Benél shifted against him. “I thought you had a plan for everybody.”

  “Fah.”

  “Come on,” Benél said. “I’m sure he’s good for something. Even Yril and Grenth were good for something.”

  Nekantor rolled on his stomach, pushed himself up on his elbows, and looked at Benél. “But now everyone knows he’s not going to be Heir.”

  Benél shrugged; muscles moved in his shoulders. “He’s attractive. He survived the fever. He’s First Family. If you keep him beside you, he can make you look good.”

  “Or he can make offers the First Family won’t deliver on, and run off into filthy Lowers’ holes when nobody’s looking.”

  Benél snorted. “Nek, who cares what he does when nobody’s looking? Who cares what he offers? He might not get you many votes, but you don’t need them all, just enough. Once you win, you could do anything with him. Put him on the cabinet. Make him work for you.”

  Ah—when Benél understood, he was powerful. Nekantor smirked. “Well, he’d be better than that Selemei creature. Of course, then I’d have to see his rock-toad face all the time. I’d much rather look at you.”

  Benél smiled and pulled him close.

  Rap-rap on the door.

  Go away. Knocking would not bother him. Nothing would bother him now; Benél was all that mattered.

  Benél’s hands stopped moving. “Nek,” he said. “Maybe you should answer.”

  “Tagaret can get lost in an adjunct.”

  Louder: bang-bang. And still louder: Bang-bang-bang!

  “That sounds like your father, Nek.”

  Father, who did not want him with Benél. Father, who still had power and this one last day to win him votes before the Round of Four. “Oh, fine. But let’s
get you out of here. No evidence.”

  They got up and dressed. Father kept banging, but the door was locked, and he could not breach their citadel. Benél kissed him, smiled, and hopped out the window. Nekantor closed the window and the shade, and made the bed. Combed his hair. Remembered his coat. Straightened his cuffs. By the time he opened the door, Father was red in the face, breathing hard. Arissen Karyas was hiding a smirk.

  “You’ve defied me.” Father lumbered past him into the room, but now everything was perfect, with no sign that Benél had been here. “You little tunnel-hound!”

  “Which votes do you wish me to win today, Father?”

  Father only growled and went out to the drawing room. He banged on Tagaret’s door.

  The locked door. No, no—Nekantor looked away fast, toward the amethyst geode in the corner. He turned inward to the perfection that remained in his body. Then Tagaret’s lock clicked open.

  “Tagaret,” said Father. “You’re coming out with us to win the Tenth Family’s vote. And you’ll have to look good. You’ve got four minutes to get as handsome as Holy Sirin himself.”

  “I hate you,” said Tagaret.

  Abruptly, the double doors opened. The First Houseman walked in and bowed. “Young Master Nekantor,” he said. “An urgent message: the Eminence wishes to see you.”

  Father’s anger exploded into a question. “What?!”

  The Imbati didn’t flinch. “Master?”

  “No, I got it,” Father said. “Let’s go.”

  Serjer bowed. “The Eminence has requested to see him alone, sir.”

  Now Father looked over, accusing. “Impossible!”

  Nekantor narrowed his eyes. There was no scheduled interview today. This was different, and unexplained. “Herin bends the rules when it pleases him,” he said. “Where?”

  “In his private library, sir,” the Imbati said.

  The room of chaos and traps. Oh, yes, Herin was playing a game—a game within the larger game, and one whose shape he couldn’t see. It twisted a knot in his throat. “Fine.”

  Nekantor beckoned Karyas toward the door. Karyas already had her weapon drawn; she knew this summons wasn’t within the rules. Father followed with his Sorn, because he still had power enough to insist. Nekantor walked fast, trying not to feel the wrongness of Father following. But it would be all right; so long as Father didn’t enter the library, he would not be disobeying the Eminence’s order, and it should be safe enough.