“What?” Reyn looked stunned. “You can’t be serious—who?”
“Copper and emeralds . . .”
Reyn spluttered. “B—but Tagaret, didn’t she—”
“No.”
“But Tagaret, she did—there was a man—”
Desperately, Tagaret pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “It was me, Reyn. I did it. Nek arranged the partnership, but even he doesn’t know. I need you to understand.”
Reyn stepped back, incredulously. “That’s—” He shook his head. “Tagaret, you—that’s really—wow. Brave . . .”
Shara spoke from the vestibule. “Sir, your cousin is here.”
Reyn waved. “Send him in.”
Gowan was wearing sapphire tonight. “Reyn, you look terrific,” he exclaimed, then, “Tagaret?”
“Hello, Gowan,” said Tagaret. “I’m so glad both of you are alive and well.”
“Thank Heile and Imbati Aloran,” said Gowan wryly.
“Gowan, Tagaret’s brought some news.”
Gowan looked at Reyn. “Really, what kind?”
Tagaret cleared his throat. “I—”
“He’s taking a partner in the name of Sirin and Eyn,” Reyn said. “Lady Della of the Sixth Family.”
Gowan exploded. “What?!”
Tagaret winced. “Gowan, don’t . . .”
“But Tagaret, she—”
Reyn cut him off. “Gowan, listen. Didn’t you say you’d had enough of being shot at? Haven’t you told me that Heir Selection is the worst thing that could happen to the Race, that it forces us to kill our own children and tear out one another’s throats?”
Gowan’s brow furrowed. “Yeah . . .”
“So, what is shunning the Sixth Family going to do for us, except doom us to more disease and dying children? Tagaret is taking a stand against that, for love, and for the good of the Race. And we have to stand by him.”
Gowan flushed and looked down at his lace cuffs. “It is forward-thinking, I suppose. One could consider it a sacrifice for the greater good—and a great charity to the poor Lady.”
“One could,” Tagaret agreed. Gowan had it all wrong, but he wasn’t about to object. When Reyn moved closer, Tagaret found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you. Bless you both.”
“Let’s stick together tonight,” Reyn said.
Gowan smiled. “We should—we’re going out for an evening event again at last.”
Gods, yes. “Here’s to Fernar,” Tagaret said. “Elinda keep him.”
“Fernar,” Reyn and Gowan echoed solemnly.
“Tagaret,” Gowan added, “I’d like to ask Pyaras to join us, too. He stopped what could have become a serious rift between our Families.”
“You’re right.” Tagaret nodded. “All right, then. Let’s go cheer for Nek—and pray he doesn’t win.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Imbati
After she’d seen young Master Tagaret off, Lady Tamelera stood for a moment, perfectly still except for her breathing. Aloran drank in the sudden peaceful silence, watching the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders. His back still ached from the beating—but it would have been far worse if young Master Nekantor had chosen a more dangerous weapon. Or if young Master Tagaret had not immediately gone for help. Or if his Lady had not overridden Nekantor’s orders and given him permission to dodge.
Tamelera turned her head slightly, divulging a glimpse of her profile. “Aloran?”
“Yes, Lady?”
She took a breath to speak, but then her brows drew together, and without a word she walked out to the sitting room. She took a seat at the gaming table, arranged her bright, dawn-colored skirts about her feet, and caught him with her gaze.
“Aloran, will you join me in keyzel marbles?”
He hesitated. “You mean, play, Lady?”
“I can teach you, if you haven’t played before.”
He considered the board: a disc of black obsidian arrayed with blue and green stone spheres. The round table beneath it was solid ilmawood, inlaid with geometric patterns. He pulled out the matching chair but, painfully aware of its magnificence, couldn’t bring himself to sit down. “Lady,” he asked. “What is the object of the game?”
“To outmaneuver the opponent and cross the board.”
He swallowed. “Then . . . must one of us win?”
Her face fell.
“Lady, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—I’ll try, if you wish it.”
“Never mind.” She stood up, then suddenly looked into his face. “Aloran, the thing is, you’re hurt.”
What a strange thing to say. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hurt in her service, and it had nothing to do with keyzel marbles. He couldn’t imagine how to reply.
Tamelera came closer. “Aloran,” she said softly. “May I help you somehow?”
He stepped back, startled. “Lady, please don’t consider me—”
“But I want to help—I can’t stand what Nekantor did to you. Please, let me get you something.”
Warmth flushed his face and chest. He began a breath pattern and didn’t answer.
Tamelera made a sound of frustration and turned away. When he realized she was leaving the room, he leapt after her. She entered her bedroom and crossed as if to go to her writing table, but didn’t stop there—she grasped the brocade curtain over his door and pulled it back.
“Lady, stop!” he cried.
Tamelera turned back and confronted him with a defiant gaze.
She couldn’t be serious—she couldn’t—but her hand on the heavy brocade silenced his every denial. She wanted to open his door, and that wasn’t the worst of it. She wanted to serve him. His heart pounded as though the floor were about to give way.
“Lady, don’t. Please—please don’t.”
Without warning the public door clicked open behind him, and Serjer hurried in without permission, calling, “Mistress, I’ve been contacted by the medical center—”
Tamelera dropped the curtain. “Heile’s mercy!”
Serjer stopped and bowed deeply. “I regret to inform you that the Master has suffered another massive heart attack. He’s—in Elinda’s care.”
“Dead?” Tamelera’s hands flew to her mouth. A terrible light came into her eyes.
Serjer looked to Aloran, gaze-gesturing urgency. “Sorn and the Imbati on witness are filling out the paperwork now,” he said. “The Master’s last act was to record his vote in favor of Nekantor, and he has charged Sorn with delivering it to the Hall of the Eminence.”
“He would, gnash him,” Tamelera said. “Wherever he is now, he’s not in Elinda’s care.”
Aloran’s heart went cold. Serjer’s message wasn’t entirely for the Lady—it was also for him.
No doubt Officer Warden Xim had expected Sorn would return home when Grobal Garr died, a route that would send him through the Maze where the arm of the enforcing wardens extended. But young Master Nekantor was no longer at home. And carrying his late Master’s vote, Sorn could take all public paths, directly to the Hall of the Eminence.
Xim needed someone else to stop him.
Aloran dropped to one knee. “Lady,” he said. “Please excuse me from your presence.”
Tamelera stared at him. She glanced to Serjer and back with open suspicion. “Why?”
Serjer said nothing.
“I don’t know,” Aloran answered, and immediately felt ashamed. The polite denial had never sounded like such an insult.
Serjer murmured, “You will excuse me, Lady,” and bowed himself out. The door clicked shut.
“I’m very sorry, Lady.” Aloran bent his head. “I beg you, let me go.”
“Are you angry with me?” Tamelera asked. “Is this something to do with Garr’s vote? Why do you want to go so badly?”<
br />
Questions, more questions! He could feel time passing with every breath. Sorn did not have far to travel—how long could the Imbati recordkeeper delay him? “Lady,” he said desperately, “do you forget who I am? Please understand the nature of my duty, and don’t ask me. Let me go.”
Tamelera made a sound, like a stifled sob.
He looked up. She was gazing at him, her blue eyes heavy with tears. “I know who you are, Imbati Aloran,” she whispered brokenly. “Go.”
He ran, ignoring the pain in his back, risking speed even in the public hallway. Across the Residence, Maze routes were fastest—he slipped in the nearest door he could find. A castemate was standing there beside the door, motionless, out of his way. Aloran sprang past her down the hall. At the base of the stairs he nearly collided with another castemate; the man flattened himself to one side. Aloran had no time to apologize. His frantic footsteps felt too short, too slow. Sorn only had to cross the shrub and flower gardens, enter the grand ballroom, and pass beneath the archways to reach the Hall of the Eminence. The only hope of intercepting him in time was to go straight to the young Master himself. Dim stairs loomed ahead—the ones that climbed above the archway between the ballroom and the Hall. He took them three at a time. Two more castemates stood at the top, one on either side of the stage door reserved for Herin’s Argun, Manservant to the Eminence. Both of them wore the diamonds of the Courts. Aloran nodded to them, and they allowed him to open the door.
He slipped through into the space between the curtain and the stone wall, peering out onto the blazing brightness of the stage.
Young Master Nekantor was only three strides away, fidgeting in a brass chair beside Grobal Innis of the Fifth Family, who sat with his head high. The two were flanked by their Arissen bodyguards, and by Grobal Innis’ manservant. Between them and the front edge of the stage stood a pair of empty steel podiums. Two guards of the Eminence’s Cohort were stationed at each stage stairway.
The Eminence Herin rose from his wooden throne, near the right-hand stairs, and advanced to a stand microphone with his Argun behind his shoulder.
“Welcome, honored members of the Pelismara Society,” he said, indicating the seated crowd with an indulgent sweep of his hand. “We’ve all passed through many dangers to reach this day, but none have faced more danger than our two remaining candidates, Nekantor of the First Family and Innis of the Fifth Family. Let us congratulate and welcome them.”
The young Master and Grobal Innis of the Fifth Family stood to their podiums. Fervent applause swelled, filling the space beneath the mosaic arches.
There was Sorn.
He emerged from the broad stone archway that connected to the ballroom. A corner of white paper showed in his right hand—the vote, his Master’s final charge. To reach the cabinet members’ roped-off seating area, Sorn would have to cross the base of the stage stairs.
“Innis,” the Eminence said. “Would you like to make a final statement?”
“Thank you, Eminence,” said Innis. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society, it is an honor to stand before you . . .”
Aloran left the curtain’s shelter swiftly and quietly, keeping his eyes away from the candidates, walking as if bearing an urgent message to someone below. The Cohort guards at the base of the stairs allowed him through. He kept his face still, and his eyes away from the white paper so Sorn would read nothing of his intent. I’m delivering a message to you, Sorn. Nothing more. Let me get close.
Sorn gaze-gestured questioning; Aloran replied with the code for urgency.
The senior servant hesitated.
Aloran snatched the paper from his hand and walked as fast as he could toward the nearest Maze door.
Sorn’s surprise lasted no more than a split second. Aloran had scarcely hidden the vote in a pocket when he heard the senior servant’s harsh, angry breathing behind him. For now, Sorn seemed unwilling to make a scene in front of the noble audience and guards—but that restraint wouldn’t last long.
Aloran tried for extra speed, but Sorn’s hand grabbed his shoulder. He should never have imagined he could make it to the Maze untouched. He spun away, and Sorn attacked, forcing him to block blows aimed at his neck and chest. Plis stand by him—fighting in public?
Guards of the Eminence’s Cohort came at them from all directions. Even the Pelismara Society had noticed. Grobal Innis’ amplified voice demanded, “What is this business?”
Officers surrounded them, and the largest man said, “Imbati, you’re causing a disturbance. Give me your names.”
“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Aloran replied. “I am Tamelera’s Aloran of the Household of the First Family.”
Sorn said nothing.
Aloran looked around at the guards. Maybe this was his chance. Surely they were still looking for suspects in the assassination attempt . . . should he accuse Sorn in front of them? But no; everyone knew Mai the Right’s embodiment varied, and one’s will was understood differently by Imbati and Arissen. If for any reason his witness were not accepted, he would have failed, and Nekantor would wield the most dangerous weapon imaginable.
He could not allow that to happen.
The Eminence’s voice now rang across the Hall. “Excuse us, everyone, just a moment while the Cohort gets this small matter cleared up.”
Sorn drew himself up. “Arissen, sir. Tamelera’s Aloran has interfered in my duty—”
“Sir, my motives in this dispute are privileged,” Aloran interrupted. “I will bear no witness without my Mistress present.”
The officer frowned. “Is she here now?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
The officer swore, then turned to Sorn. “What of your master, Imbati?”
“He awaits me on the stage, sir,” Sorn said. “Nekantor of the First Family.”
Ice raced down Aloran’s back. He could not—could not—allow the Arissen to call Nekantor here! “Sir, he lies.”
The officer sniffed, looking between them skeptically.
Should he try to explain? But how could he, without landing both of them in Arissen custody?
As if in answer to his prayers, young Master Nekantor’s voice cried over the speakers, “That’s my father’s servant!”
The Eminence replied, “Young Nekantor, please sit and let the Cohort resolve this.”
The officer heard; he scowled and crossed his heavy arms.
“Sir,” said Aloran. “Young Master Nekantor has said it himself: this is his father’s servant, Garr’s Sorn of the Household of the First Family. His Master is partner to my Mistress, the young Master’s mother.”
“You mean you’ve disrupted the final Selection for a domestic squabble?”
Sorn’s eyes flashed. “Tamelera’s Aloran has stolen my Master’s vote for the Selection, sir. You must have him searched and arrested.”
“I don’t obey orders from Imbati,” the officer spat. “Especially Imbati who’ve lied to my face. You two boys had better work this out on your own. Don’t come back in until you’re ready to behave yourselves.” He glanced toward the enormous bronze-relief doors at the far end of the Hall, the last place where latecomers were being allowed to enter.
Aloran avoided the officer’s hand when he reached for his arm, but moved meekly in the direction his glance had indicated. The officer didn’t try to touch him again.
Grobal Innis of the Fifth Family resumed his speechmaking. “Ah, thank you, Arissen. As you can see, these are, indeed, tumultuous times. And tumultuous times call for leaders with experience and political acumen . . .”
Under heavy escort, they walked the length of the Hall to the security checkpoint and in among the Arissen with their trained tunnel-hounds. Aloran’s chest tightened when he glimpsed the foyer beyond. True, they weren’t headed toward the cabinet, or Nekantor, but there were no Maze doors here. The doo
rs on left and right were exposed, leading to richly appointed anterooms—the central section’s version of a vestibule, to which either Grobal or Imbati might enter. The only direct Maze doors were hidden inside them.
Only speed could help him now.
He kept his weight on his toes, moving between the last two guards. Risked a glance back. Sorn was being loosely held by two Arissen, who appeared to be explaining their dispute to the security team.
Go.
He sprinted for the nearest bronze door, praying the Arissen wouldn’t care enough to follow. Pushed it, but it was heavy, too slow to start moving—already Sorn had broken free —
He got the door wide enough to sneak through, but the room within was too big, the Maze door with its promise of safety or rescue too far beyond the chairs. Why hadn’t he thought to shut the door behind him? He whirled, but it was too late. Sorn was already in—already here, Plis help him—
Sorn’s arm locked like an iron bar around his throat.
Aloran jerked his chin sharply downward into the wiry crook of Sorn’s elbow, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed backward, found flesh, and twisted hard. Sorn grunted but didn’t release. No breath; no time. Already his vision was shrinking. He stomped and kicked backward, but met no resistance—flung himself backward and crashed against the closing bronze door. Sorn barked in pain.
A wave of black rushed inward—
Oh, Tamelera, I’m sorry . . .
The dark swallowed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Heir to the Throne of Varin
Nekantor gripped the sides of his podium.
He was all pain—his fingers sore from gripping the podium, his hand sore from washing away the poison, his arm sore from punishing the Imbati, his chest and stomach sore from Tagaret throwing his crazy fit. With no more Benél to hold him together, every part of him screamed and squirmed and struggled to crawl away from every other part. Only one thing held him together under the lights, under the hungry eyes of the entire Pelismara Society.
The whore’s ring.
He’d found it with his fingers after the fists stopped hitting him, by crawling across the floor to his bedside table. It had reminded him he had power; it had taught him to stand, and to tell Tagaret his childish anger meant nothing.
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