Benél gulped. “I was wrong.”
Nekantor grabbed him by the shirt. “Who told you these lies? We’re on the same side, Benél—the First Family stands together against enemies. You have to tell me!”
Benél looked away to one side. “Just a note,” he muttered. “Household.”
Yril—it had to be Yril; Yril had always wanted his place by Benél’s side. But Yril would never win perfection. Nekantor’s heart pounded. His nerves hurt, all the way into his fingers, still tangled in Benél’s silk shirt. He tightened his fists, pulled Benél close. “Benél,” he whispered. “Kiss me.”
“No.”
“They’re lying,” Nekantor hissed. “They’re wrong, Benél. I’m yours—you know me!”
Benél dragged a choking breath. “I do know you,” he said. “You should go.”
“Benél!”
But Benél ran out of the vestibule, deeper into the house. Nekantor stood shaking, trying to breathe. Without Benél, this was a horrible place, a border place where Lowers moved, and no place for gentlemen. The curtain ahead was restless with Benél’s passing, and then the curtain on his left moved, and an Imbati was going to come out—
Nekantor ran. He fled down the hall, slapped the entry pad and ran into his rooms, but his bed loomed ahead, confronting him, whispering of sex. Benél, Benél! Benél grabbing him, kissing him, throwing him down—Benél crushing him, penetrating him, erasing every thought—
“No!” he screamed. “No!” No more perfection, and the Selection was coming fast—Plis’ bones, the eyes, the whispers! He had to have all the votes, and he didn’t have all the votes, or did he?
Every particle of him screamed for perfection, but Benél was gone. He couldn’t see the game, and where was Father? In the Heile-forsaken medical center with traitor doctors who wouldn’t heal him enough to let him play—
His chest squeezed tighter, tighter. Breath felt hot, and the room contracted. It was too tight in here—he slammed his fists against the inside of the door, over and over until they went numb. He needed Father—he needed Benél—
“No!” he screamed, “I can do this by myself!”
He fumbled a wire from his drawer, flung his door open, and ran to Father’s office. When the lock clicked open, he stepped inside—tried to find knowledge and a sense of pattern, tried to see Father sitting at his desk chuckling, full of plans and confidence.
But it meant nothing. Father had never seen the whole game, and now the chair was empty, the desk a riot of papers, nothing pointing anywhere or making any sense. Nekantor seized the papers in his fists. He tore them—gods, it felt good! He seized more, more, and tore them into pieces, tiny shreds that no longer wanted to be straight because there was no more edge to obligate them. The floor filled with paper, and his fingers discovered a long, sharp letter-opener. Just what he needed—he wheeled toward the couch. Gnash the thing, it had never belonged! It had encroached here, encroached on Father, taking him slowly from underneath and ruining his mind and body. He stabbed it, ripped at it until the letter-opener bent, flung his weapon aside and dug his fingers into the openings, tearing them outward. The frame groaned and the rumpled sheet screamed and died; the pillows gave up their guts and feathers floated in the air until everything whirled in a white fury.
“I don’t need you,” Nekantor panted. “I don’t need you!” A feather caught in his mouth and choked him, so he stumbled out again into the sitting room.
He knew where he had to go next: Tagaret’s locked door. Even now he could feel it—those hooks were old, old, and that place never stopped mocking, every time he walked by. His blood raced madly, and his body shook. Now was the time. The door would submit, now that Father could not stop him.
He shoved through the double doors into the drawing room and went straight to the geode in the corner. It was heavy, unwieldy, but there was nothing better. This time it would work, even if he had to break the door down. Tagaret would finally realize there was no use in trying to keep his secret games.
Nekantor turned around. And growled.
Tagaret’s door was open.
The one time he needed it to be locked, it was open, and Imbati Aloran was standing in front of it.
“Gnash you, Imbati,” Nekantor shouted. “What in Varin’s name are you doing?”
Imbati Aloran turned around. “Young Master,” he said, “Pardon me. I came to speak with your brother.”
Look at him: the Imbati who played games. He was playing one even now, or why would he be blushing? Why would his eyes be white with fear?
Nekantor dropped the geode and strode over. “What are you hiding, Imbati Aloran? What’s your game?”
The frightened Imbati bowed low. “My apologies, young Master.”
“Ha!” Nekantor said. “Deflections, always the deflections! You will tell me.”
Tagaret appeared in the door. “What are you doing, Nek? Leave him alone. Mother sent him to talk to me, that’s all.”
“About what, exactly?” Nekantor demanded. “It’s wrong, I tell you. He’s an Imbati, he doesn’t just get to talk to you, it’s not his place! Imbati, when are you going to learn?”
“Nek, stop,” Tagaret said. “Why are you doing this? What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong!” Nekantor screamed. Benél’s staring eyes—I know what’s wrong with you . . . He panted, clenched his fists. “Nothing wrong at all. Nothing, except that my brother is an idiot and my servants aren’t obedient enough. Imbati, come with me.”
“Nek—”
“Give him to me, gnash it, or I’ll slap him!”
Tagaret stared with his mouth open. No words, no power. Nekantor pointed the Imbati down the hall toward his room. Slowly, too slowly, the Imbati turned and began to walk down the hall.
“I know what you’re up to,” Nekantor sneered. “I see your game. It shows in every step you take.” He could play games better than any Imbati.
“Young Master, I don’t know how I have offended you—”
“In!”
“Please allow me to make amends—”
“Get inside, now!”
The Imbati opened the door of his room and walked in, then turned and made a deep bow. More disguised defiance. Nekantor pushed his shoulder—hard—but he didn’t even have the decency to fall down.
“Down!” Nekantor shrieked.
Imbati Aloran got on his knees and put his marked forehead on the floor. Yes, that was wonderful. Probably thought he was safe, the proud little Lower, that deference would make him untouchable.
He would soon know better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Apologies
Mother!” Tagaret shouted. His flailing heart cut off his breath and tried to choke him—he burst into her room without knocking, startling her at her writing table. “Mother, help, Nekantor’s got Aloran!”
Mother stood so fast she upended her chair onto the carpet. “Sweet Heile, where?”
“His rooms. I didn’t know how to stop him, Mother, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
But words wouldn’t help. He turned and ran out again, letting her follow. This was his fault. The anonymous note had done its job too well—Varin knew what would happen if they didn’t get there fast. What if he got his wish, but Aloran was the price? Oh, holy Mai!
Down the hall, Nekantor’s Arissen woman stood in the hall outside his room as if nothing unusual were going on. Tagaret ignored her and banged on the door. “Nekantor! Let me in!”
No answer.
Mother rushed up beside him. “Aloran!” she cried, her voice edged with terror. “Don’t let him hurt you!”
Still nothing.
Tagaret put his shoulder into the door and leaned on the handle, hard. Nekantor always locked his door, Varin gnash him—he’d get Arissen Karyas to melt the lock if he had to—
It wasn’t locked.
The door gave way. Tagaret half-fell into the room and stumbled straight into Nekantor’s back. Nekantor shrieked and whirled, his arm raised high. A leather belt swung from his hand like a whip.
Tagaret threw himself on his brother and knocked him down. Punched him in the stomach, in the chest. Nekantor curled into a ball screaming, and it was just what he deserved, and Tagaret hit him again, again, in the side, in the back, over and over.
“Tagaret, stop!” Mother’s voice.
No— Nekantor would pay, finally would be punished for everything he’d done!
“Aloran, stop him.”
Hands under his arms. An irresistible force pulled him upward, and just like that he was suspended in midair, the motions of his fists useless. He cried out in dismay and frustration.
“Young Master, thank you,” Aloran said softly. “I’ll be all right.”
“Aloran,” said Mother. “Bring him out.”
The strong hands lowered; Tagaret felt his feet touch the floor. Aloran’s arm around his back was hard as iron, but he wouldn’t have fought it. The terrible anger was gone—only guilt remained, as if his heart had caved in. “I’m sorry, Aloran,” Tagaret murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
Aloran said nothing.
“Karyas,” said Mother. “You are remiss in your duty. Mind your charge.”
The Arissen woman twitched, but clapped her right hand to her left shoulder in salute. She went into Nekantor’s room and shut the door.
“Mother,” said Tagaret. “I’m sorry . . .” What else could he say? But no matter how many times he said it, it was never enough.
“Are you finished?” Mother asked severely.
Oh, the look on her face . . . Tagaret gulped and nodded.
“Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to pull yourself together, and we’re going back in there. You and Aloran are going to apologize to Nekantor.”
“What?” he cried. It came out as a squeak. “But that’s not fair!”
Mother grabbed his arms. “Fair has nothing to do with this, Tagaret,” she hissed. “Nekantor has an important event to attend, and he has to be in the Hall of the Eminence in thirty minutes. You and Aloran have to help him get there.”
“But he can’t—”
She shook him so hard his teeth clacked together. “You don’t understand! Tagaret, he’s like your father. If he’s late for the Selection, he’ll blame you. If he blames you, he’ll punish you. If he considers you harmless like Garr has always considered me—he’ll hurt you, and that will satisfy him. But if he ever decides you’re a real threat, he won’t be satisfied until you’re dead.”
“Mother . . .” He shook his head. But his eyes crept to Aloran standing there silent, his suit disarranged, who knew how many whip-lashes on his back. Aloran was the undeniable proof that she was right—he’d done nothing but stand in Nekantor’s path, and this was his reward. If Nekantor ever suspected who had written the note . . . “What can I do?” he whispered.
Mother’s grip softened, and she put her arms around him. Tagaret leaned forward against her hair.
“Be harmless,” she said. “Tell him it was a tantrum. You were upset and jealous about Lady Della, and you got angry because it was your turn to have Aloran, not his. Apologize and offer to help him get ready so he won’t be late.”
Tagaret stepped back and looked at her. His eyes felt hot and his throat raw. “Oh, Mother . . .”
“Keep yourself safe,” Mother insisted.
He took a deep breath, then knocked at the door. No one answered—he almost walked away. But he had to do this. “Nekantor, I’m sorry,” he called.
There were murmurs inside, and the door opened. Nekantor was there—scowling, but he’d already begun straightening his clothes. It seemed he hadn’t yet noticed the crazy state of his hair.
Tagaret deliberately hung his head. His heart screamed, but it wasn’t Mai’s help he needed now, it was Heile’s. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said. “I was a stupid baby. I got too upset over Lady Della, and then you took Aloran when I wanted him, and I lost hold of myself. I guess—I don’t know.” He forced the words out, though they burned in his throat. “I guess I was too much my—my mother’s son.”
“You are stupid,” Nekantor growled. “You don’t know what’s good for you. That’s why I’m in the Selection tonight, and you’re not.”
At least he didn’t have to fake the blush. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. Can—” He choked on what he had to say, coughed, and sucked in a breath. “Can I help you?”
Nekantor laughed.
Tagaret blinked at him.
“You already have helped me, idiot,” Nekantor said. “You’ve got me a vote. And I’ve got you a very pretty, slightly used partner.”
“A, uuh,” he stammered. “Thank—?” He bit down on the word. Not thanks, outrage. “I mean—Nekantor, a used partner? What were you thinking?”
Nekantor laughed again. “I knew you’d feel that way. You’re welcome. Just make sure you arrange the ceremony as soon as possible so you can take credit for any of her gifts to the Race.”
Oh, dear gods! Tagaret’s mouth fell open.
Thank Heile, Aloran changed the subject. “Young Master Nekantor,” he said, “May I get you a comb before you leave for the Selection?”
“No!” Nekantor shouted. “I can do this by myself!” He slammed the door in their faces.
Tagaret stared at the door. Probably he should be relieved that Nek didn’t want them—but he couldn’t help wondering if Nek would be late and blame them anyway. His body still quivered with the after-echoes of rage. He rubbed his face with both hands.
“Tagaret, darling,” Mother said. “You should get ready for the Selection event now, too.”
Tagaret grimaced. “But what if Nek wins?” He couldn’t have felt more useless—nothing he’d done had slowed Nek down, only made him more dangerous than ever. “I couldn’t stand it.”
Mother lifted his hand in her warm fingers. “Love, who knows how the votes may have shifted? It may still end well.”
He rolled his eyes.
Mother gave his hand a firm shake. “Darling, you need to be seen. Were you listening to your brother? Lady Della’s plan worked better than we could have imagined—and that means you will have a partner soon, perhaps in a matter of days.”
A partner—only from Mother’s mouth did the words finally reach his heart. “Sirin and Eyn, you’re right,” he said. “Do you think I might see her tonight? I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t think you should expect that, Tagaret,” Mother said. “You have something else to do—you have to show strength, publicly, for her and for yourself. You’re a man now, with responsibilities. No matter what the outcome tonight, you’ll have to handle the rockfall that the two of you have brought upon yourselves.”
She was right. No matter how clever their plan, they couldn’t escape the game entirely. “I’ll go, then,” he said. “So I won’t be late.”
He rang for Kuarmei, and she helped him dress in the ocean suit that Mother had given him, deftly handling the long rows of pearl buttons along the cuffs.
As she fastened his coat, he remembered Reyn.
Reyn, who had run his finger down this sleeve, and told him the ocean was the secret behind this shifting pattern of glimmer and blue. Reyn, who had almost died of touching his hand, but would be caught in the changing tide now that Della could be his forever.
“Kuarmei,” he said. “Do you have paper?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Tagaret sat down at his desk. His chest felt as cold as the blank paper. At last he started to write.
To Reyn of the Ninth Family
Do you remember the first day we kissed? Then I imagine you must also remember copper and emeralds—I think
you always knew she was never far outside my thoughts when we were together. It’s not that I ever loved you less, but I suppose there must be different kinds of love. And then there was the fever, and the Selection. And now there’s this: I’ve just learned I will be taking Lady Della in partnership. Nek arranged it, but I’d be lying if I said it isn’t what I always wanted. I hope you’ll decide not to scorn me—I’m pretty sure everyone else will. It’s the worst for you, though, so if you do, then I’ll understand. I guess becoming a man happened faster than I was ready for. Now that it’s happened, I’d better give it my best. I’m sorry.
Tagaret of the First Family
He almost threw it away the instant he was finished, but what words could possibly serve instead? He sighed and folded the paper closed.
“Shall I deliver it for you, sir?” Kuarmei asked.
Tagaret blushed. “No, thank you. I think I’d better do this one myself.”
Mother wished him luck with a smile and a kiss, but his shame only deepened as he climbed the stairs. The letter burned in his inside pocket; he gritted his teeth and forced his feet forward. Kuarmei kept him from feeling exposed—but Reyn had kept him from feeling alone. At Reyn’s door he took a deep breath and knocked.
Imbati Shara opened the door, but had scarcely begun her greeting when Lady Iren exploded into the vestibule in an amethyst whirl of joy.
“Tagaret?” she exclaimed. “We were expecting Cousin Gowan!”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“No, no, come in. He’ll be so happy to see you! We’re going out tonight, we’re really, finally going out!”
“Won’t you come in, sir?” said Imbati Shara, with determination.
He couldn’t have said no. When the curtain opened, he discovered Reyn beaming at him, standing on his feet and looking quite put together in his ruby suit with the lace collar. If anything, his remaining traces of thinness made him look more mature.
“Reyn!” Tagaret ran to hug him without thinking—then realized what he was doing and blurted, “Reyn, I’m taking a partner.”
Mazes of Power Page 41
