CHAPTER TWO

Safety

Safety lies in secrecy, Della’s mother used to tell her, and freedom thrives within walls. Back then, it had been about getting her little sister music lessons without being accused of muckwalking. Now? Living in this house, as loving partner to the Heir’s older brother, meant secrets were more important than ever. Every possible action had to be measured against Nekantor’s possible reaction. If it advanced the First Family, Nek would be all in favor; if he didn’t care, you could get away with doing it publicly; if he would be angry, you should keep it private; if he would destroy you for it, you’d better make sure he never found out.

She came to the front of the sitting room and called for the First Houseman.

“Serjer?”

The Imbati emerged from behind his Maze door, stepping into the entry vestibule with a bow. “Mistress Della?”

“My guests will be here shortly. Can you tell me where everyone is?”

Serjer inclined his forehead, which was tattooed with the crescent cross of the Household. “Master Tagaret is at work in the cabinet offices, young Master Adon is at school, and Mistress Tamelera is here at home, in her rooms. She has no salon gatherings arranged for today.”

Della nodded. “I remember. I’m glad she won’t be disturbed. What about Nekantor?”

“The Household last reported him leaving the Residence by the northeast entrance, Lady.”

“Ah.” Della frowned. That was a problem. When Nekantor was at home in the Heir’s suite, you could usually count on him to stay there. If he left, he became unpredictable. She double-checked the arrangement of the sitting room. The couches and chairs around the low glass table were not quite parallel to the stone wall, and the walls facing the front door were hung with many paintings, two of which had been hung slightly askew—but only very slightly.

Would that be enough protection?

It was vital to keep Nekantor from visiting, but difficult to stop him. A few years ago, they’d had the idea to make him reluctant to come around by arranging the house to irritate his compulsive obsessions. The first time, they’d accidentally overdone it. Driven into a fury, Nekantor had destroyed some beautiful art depicting the children of the holy celestial family. A green glass statue of Heile, goddess of mercy, music, and medicine, he’d smashed against the stone wall, and followed it with a statue of the Twins, Bes the Ally and Trigis the Resolute. The holy Lovers, Sirin the Luck-Bringer and Eyn the Wanderer, had met a somewhat different fate under his shoes. He’d bent Plis the Warrior unrecognizably. The only icon remaining of the set was Mai the Right, armored deity of justice, whose image was worked in an unusually sturdy material that they’d had re-framed. A lucky survivor. Della picked it up from the low table, angling it in the light: the image changed gradually from Mai’s female embodiment, to essential, to male, and then back again. She tucked it under her arm. Like her guests, it would be safer farther in.

“I’ll host in the inner rooms, today,” she said. “This is better private, anyway. I don’t want Nekantor walking in on musicians unexpectedly.”

“Of course, Lady.”

“Excuse me, Mistress?” That was her manservant’s warm, smooth voice.

“Yoral?” Her balance felt strange when she turned, but it had been uncertain all morning. “What is it?”

“Your gloves, Lady.”

“Oh, perfect, thank you.” She handed him Mai the Right and took the gloves, which were emerald silk to match her gown. Then the doorbell rang. Serjer opened the door.

Vant had arrived first. He wore a pale gray formal tailcoat—pale gray coats marked the Kartunnen artisan caste—and a deep purple shirt with a high collar. His reddish-blond hair fell to his shoulders, and his lower lip was painted green. He carried a small instrument case in one hand. When Della had first met him, he’d been the assistant to her sister’s music teacher. Since then, his master had become famous across Varin, and he’d risen to the rank of apprentice. He deserved better, honestly, because he was a brilliant musician and composer. Tamelera often had him play at her salon gatherings, because his music relaxed people while they discussed uncomfortable issues like the Grobal decline, and the role of inoculants in preventing deadly outbreaks of Kinders fever.

“Good afternoon, Lady Della,” Vant said, bowing. Still so formal and polite, after all these years.

“Come in, come in, I’m so happy you could make it. No big audiences today; it’s mostly just practice for Adon’s birthday. We’ll be playing farther in.” She led him across the sitting room and through the bronze double doors into the private drawing room. She watched him look around the space, taking in the hangings of embroidery and tufted cloth. “How have you been?”

“I’m well, Lady. I had a concert with my master last week, and I think it went well. It was my first time playing the triscili for a concert audience.”

So that was a triscili case. “I’d love to hear you play it,” Della said. “But before you practice, I’m going to introduce you to a couple of people.”

Vant’s face changed, suddenly guarded with a hint of . . . alarm? How could he play in public concerts and still be so shy?

“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re Kartunnen, not Grobal. I took the liberty, recently, of sending one of your compositions to the director of the Selimnar symphony . . .”

“Lady,” Vant said, very quietly. “Did you really?”

“Of course I did. It was marvelous, and I can’t imagine you’d want to spend your entire life living in your master’s shadow.”

“I . . . well, I don’t suppose . . .”

She took his elbow. He smelled of hand oil, and something else, a gentle waxy scent. “I had the opportunity to meet a sweet couple from the symphony who’ve been visiting Pelismara this month. They asked if they could meet you, so I’ve invited them here.”

“Oh,” he breathed, and laid one long-fingered hand on his chest. “Oh, Lady. You’re too kind.”

Imbati Serjer looked in from the sitting room carrying a pair of cases, which he set to one side of the doors. “Lady, your other guests have arrived.”

“Yes, thank you, Serjer.” She turned back to Vant. It was hard seeing him so nervous. “Vant, promise of Bes, it’ll be all right. We’ve known each other long enough for you to trust me, haven’t we? I’m only trying to give you the success you deserve.”

“Thank you, Lady.”

Though it made her awkwardly self-aware, she sheltered him with her body as the other two guests came in. Kartunnen Simi was tall and angular, with golden skin and short black hair that stood up like a kanguan’s crest; her pale-skinned partner, Benyin, had a beautiful soft body and wore a thick braid forward of her shoulder. Like Vant, they wore the gray coats and green lip-paint unique to the Kartunnen caste; unlike him, they also wore black lines across their eyelids. When she introduced them, Vant gave a formal bow. Simi returned the bow, and Benyin curtsied.

“So grateful ever, noble Lady,” said Benyin. She and her partner both had strong Selimnar accents, speaking slowly with stretched vowels, and lots of ‘so.’

“We’re deeply pleased to meet you, Vant,” said Simi.

“Deeply pleased,” Benyin agreed. “Your style—”

“Oh, yes, my true, the style.”

“It shines, and your energy, too. Both distinct in your composition, so.”

“Thank you,” Vant replied, and glanced at Della. “What did you send them?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Just the piece you wrote for me.”

Vant’s cheeks turned red. “But—but that was nothing. You can’t have loved it that much; I wrote it in an afternoon.”

“You don’t understand.” Della shook his arm. “You’re brilliant. I’ve seen it all along, and you deserve to be known as a composer in your own right, not just as Ryanin’s assistant, or his apprentice. Simi and Benyin agree with me.”

“So does Selimna,” said Simi. “We played it in concert at the Lady’s Walk, so.”

“You—!” Vant covered his mouth with both hands.

“What’s the Lady’s Walk?” Della asked. “Is it a concert venue?” She had to be careful—discussing Selimna would mean skirting some dangerous secrets—but this question was surely innocuous. She and Tagaret had been studying Selimna for years, poring over maps, and listening to Tamelera’s stories about living there. It was hard to believe there could be a venue there she’d never heard of . . .

“It’s not really a venue,” said Simi. “It’s an open zone near the Alixi’s Residence, so.”

“It is a venue, though, my true,” said Benyin.

Simi nodded. “It is, because the walls of the whorl are so tall, and the acoustics they provide are so fabulous.” She waved one hand in a circle above her head. “Once, though, markets used to set out there. At that time, it was named just The Circle, so.”

“The Circle!” Della exclaimed. “I’ve heard of that. I’ve always wanted to go. They changed the name to the Lady’s Walk?”

“Road signs still read The Circle, noble Lady,” Benyin chuckled. “I suppose, the name changed within the last twenty years or so, Simi, yeah?”

“Yes, after the Lady Alixi chose it for her everyday healthful.”

“Lady Tamelera. She wanted music, so.”

“Music, art, fashion, too—she made careers.”

“Did she really?” Della asked, delighted. “That’s wonderful.” And Tamelera would be delighted to learn she’d had a lasting influence, but for the moment, Vant was still looking a bit too shocked. “Vant, are you all right?”

“L—Lady Della, I—” He took a deep breath. “I guess I just have a hard time believing it’s true.”

“It is true, so.” Benyin went and opened one of the cases that the First Houseman had left beside the door. There was a pair of foot-drums inside it, but she pulled out a piece of paper. “Do see here, Vant. It’s the program from our performance, so. Perhaps one day you’ll travel to Selimna and play beside us.”

“Oh, I love that idea,” Della said.

Vant took the program, and she looked over his shoulder. Simi and Benyin’s names were printed in machine script on the soft paper, and beneath that, The Lady’s Walk and a list of pieces. One was entitled, ‘For Della,’ with Vant’s name beside it. At the bottom of the page, smaller script read, Paper provided by special arrangement with Dorlis and Nenda, Melumalai.

Della blinked. The secrets kept insisting. Just two days ago, Tagaret had asked her to be on the lookout for any information about paper merchants in Selimna.

“May I have this, if you don’t mind?” she asked. “I’d like to show it to Tagaret.”

“Of course, noble Lady.”

A strange sound came, muffled, through the double doors. Della turned toward it just as the First Houseman looked in, eyes wide. “Lady Della, please come into the sitting room.”

Her stomach twisted, but she made herself turn to her guests and smile. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Feel free to get to know each other.” She tried to slip through the door, but her hip caught painfully on its edge, making her hiss. She stumbled into the sitting room, where Adon was standing beside a very young manservant with long braids. She frowned.

“Lady,” said Serjer. “This is Nekantor’s Dexelin.”

“Oh, gods!” she exclaimed. Nekantor’s eyes are in our house. Our preparations won’t stop Dexelin if his Master isn’t here.

Then Adon barreled into her, flinging his arms around her chest. She would have toppled if her Yoral hadn’t been standing by; Yoral caught her, and she fought back to her feet.

This was all wrong. Adon never hugged her unless she asked him to, and never like this.

“Adon, what’s going on?”

He looked up. “Someone tried to shoot me and now she’s dead!”

“Shoot you?!”

Those words plunged her fourteen years into the past. Instinctively, she grasped at implications, at action plans, as if the Eminence Indal had just caught his fatal fever, the epidemic had started, and this was the Heir Selection all over again. Who else is in danger?

No, wait. Now was now; they’d come a long way toward repairing the rift between the Grobal and their doctors that had followed the epidemic; the Eminence was Herin of the Third Family, who was quite alive; and no one should be attacking Adon. There was no reason to, was there?

“Lady,” Serjer said. “Nekantor’s Dexelin brought young Master Adon home.”

Music started playing in the drawing room. Della held Adon tighter, keeping her eye on Dexelin, memorizing him in case she saw him again. Nekantor’s servants were not glass icons, but he broke them, systematically, which meant she constantly had to learn new Imbati who were far too young. It wasn’t exactly Dexelin’s fault that he worked for someone awful, but his vow of service required him to report to his Master. Fortunately, he didn’t seem overly curious. He’d glanced only once at the double doors, when the music began.

“Please excuse my confusion, Dexelin,” Della said. “We have musicians by. They’re practicing for Adon’s birthday party tomorrow.”

“Lady,” said Serjer, “I’ll get the Mistress.” He hurried through the double doors into the back.

“And thank you for bringing Adon home, too,” Della said. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“I’ll tell you what I know, Lady.” Dexelin bowed. “My Master and I were leaving the Grobal School when I saw an unmarked Arissen intruder, and begged permission to follow her. When I found her, she had already taken a shot at young Master Adon and was fighting an Academy student. I fought her off, but before we could capture her, a guard of the Eminence’s Cohort arrived on the scene and shot her in the head.”

“Heile’s mercy!” Della cried. “That’s awful.” Adon’s arms tightened until she could hardly breathe.

Dexelin inclined his head. “Indeed, Lady. So I brought young Master Adon straight home, for safety. But now, if you will excuse me, I should return to the scene to answer the Cohort’s questions.”

Oh, thank heavens. But she mustn’t sound too eager for him to leave. “Of course, by all means,” she said. “Thank you again.”

The servant bowed and departed.

Della squeezed Adon’s head against her chest. “Sweet little brother. He’s gone. You’re safe, now.”

“I think my suit is ruined,” Adon mumbled. “I need to change my clothes.”

“Do you think so?” Hard to tell from this angle whether he had blood on him. That thought was just—ugh! And an attempt on Adon’s life couldn’t be random. Some unseen motive lurked behind the act, deadly and terrifying, urging her, do something.

Do what?

“Oh, Adon! Oh, my love!” Tamelera swooped in with a rustle of silk skirts, her manservant, Aloran, close behind her. Half her hair was in a braid; the other half fell in a red-gold cloud down past her elbow. Aloran must have been in the midst of styling it.

Adon instantly unwound himself and ran to her. She held him, kissing the top of his head. Even Aloran placed a hand on Adon’s shoulder.

“Della, did he tell you what happened?”

“Nekantor’s Dexelin said an Arissen entered the Grobal School and tried to shoot him.”

Tamelera’s eyebrows shot up. “Nekantor’s servant came here?”

“He’s gone now, don’t worry.”

“M-mother,” Adon said, voice shaking. “Imbati Talabel s-saved me. Like a real bodyguard. I have to, I have to thank her. And Nekantor’s Dexelin, too, for saving us both, and bringing me home. And—oh Heile—” He broke off, and gulped hard.

“Come, love,” Tamelera said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She shifted him slightly to one side and walked, with him still molded against her, into the back.

Tamelera’s Aloran turned his dark eyes on Della. “Mistress Della, if you please.”

Oh, right. The musicians were still here, still playing. “Yes, of course, I’m coming.” She took the heavy door from him and went into the back. Vant, Simi, and Benyin were sitting on a single couch together, playing. A wysp had drifted into the room, and now sparkled above their heads. That joy, in the face of what had happened to Adon, brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’ve had some bad news. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go.”

Vant stood up, the slim triscili still held in his fingers. “Are you all right?”

Why should she be reacting like this? She brushed the tears off her cheeks. “I’m fine.”

Simi and Benyin stood and bowed. “Vant told us about playing for your brother’s birthday party, noble Lady,” Benyin said. “We’ve offered to join him, so. If there’s been bad news, will you still celebrate?”

That was surprisingly easy to answer. Anyone who attacked the First Family would be looking for signs of the impact of their scheme—for fear or weakness—so they must show none. “We’ll hold the party as planned,” she said. “We’d be honored to hear you play.”

“So grateful ever, noble Lady.” They carried their instruments to the wall and began packing them into the cases. Vant took apart his triscili and laid the pieces into the small case he’d brought.

Della shook her head. Poor Adon. A child should have no enemies! But Nekantor and his Dexelin had been at the Grobal School this afternoon, and Nekantor had plenty of enemies.

As did the whole First Family.

Oh, dear gods, Tagaret!

She clenched both fists instinctively, caught by an impulse to run in several directions at once. Nausea shuddered through her. “Yoral?”

Thank the Twins, he was still at her shoulder. “Yes, Mistress?”

“We have to go—you’ll have to excuse me, Vant. Simi and Benyin, my apologies. Our First Houseman will show you out.”

---

—

Della hurried across the Eminence’s Residence to the offices wing. In thirteen years living here, she’d learned to agree out loud that this was the most prestigious and perfect place to live, far better than the large Grobal neighborhood to the north, where she’d grown up. However, this emergency reminded her again of all its problems. Too many people in too small a space. Too many outward-facing windows. Too many doors, both in the main halls and in the halls of the servants’ Maze, all of which had to be guarded by Arissen or Imbati. Tagaret had lived here his entire life, and thought nothing of it—but an Arissen assassin had just walked into the Grobal School and straight to her intended victim, unchecked until the last possible moment. If any of the people assigned to those doors failed, or betrayed them . . .

Let it be all right. Let the attack be over. Della knocked on the bronze door of the First Family’s cabinet offices.

The door did not immediately open.

Panic seized her throat. What if Tagaret had been attacked too, or killed, when she had nothing to keep of him? No. No. She pressed her hand to her stomach and took a deep breath, another. Tagaret must be in a meeting; surely that was it. She knocked again, harder.

The door swung inward on Tagaret’s bodyguard, Imbati Kuarmei.

“Oh, Kuarmei, thank Heile,” Della exclaimed. “The First Family is under attack!”

“Come in quickly, Lady,” said Kuarmei.

She hopped over the threshold, and then she was in, and here was Tagaret, opening his arms to her. Dizzy with relief, Della pressed her face into his chest, gave herself to his embrace, breathed him in, squeezed him tighter and tighter. Oh, to have him alone, right now—the shockingly inappropriate thought sent a hot blush from her cheeks down to her knees.

Not in the cabinet assistants’ office! Where had that idea come from?

“Della, are you safe?” Tagaret asked. He stroked her cheek with one gloved hand; she wished for his fingers. “No one is after you?”

How handsome his sweet, serious face was. His brown eyes, full of fear, were also full of love. Had she failed to look at them this morning, or just failed to see?

“No, I’m safe,” she said. “Adon is, too—but an assassin found him in the Grobal School! If it weren’t for one of the Imbati students, and Nekantor’s Dexelin, he wouldn’t be. You haven’t seen anything here, have you?”

Tagaret frowned and took half a step back, looking over his shoulder. Della suddenly became aware of the room around them. It was broad enough to hold four steel desks, one for each of the cabinet assistants: Tagaret, his younger cousin Pyaras, and two other cousins, one of whom was a known informant to the Eminence Herin. However, of the four, Tagaret was the only one here. He served as both Nekantor’s informant in this office, and as a secret informant on Nekantor’s activities to the First Family’s cabinet member, herself.

Who was standing just behind him.

“Lady Selemei!” Della exclaimed. “Oh, heavens, I’m sorry.”

Lady Selemei was the first lady ever to hire a gentleman’s servant and claim a seat on the Eminence’s cabinet. She was small, with golden skin and tightly curled gray hair, and her gloved hands rested atop a silver cane. If not for the gently softened shape of her body, you would never imagine she had borne five children—five, imagine it! She herself was miserable in comparison. I’m too tall, my hips are too narrow, my stomach feels all wrong, my breasts poke out . . .

“Please don’t worry, Della,” Lady Selemei said. She smiled up reassuringly. Behind her, her broad-shouldered Imbati woman remained expressionless. “You have an excellent reason to interrupt, but honestly, I don’t consider it an interruption. We’d finished up for today.”

Tagaret smiled. “I was actually about to come home and ask for your help with the inoculant program.”

“Really?”

Tagaret nodded. “We need to reach the people who live in the northern neighborhoods. That’s over half of the Pelismara Society. If you could ask your parents to talk to my mother . . .”

“I’m not sure how they’ll feel about that, but I can ask this week.”

“There’s more, though.” Tagaret got a mysterious look on his face. “Even bigger news.”

“Wait—bigger news? Besides the attack?”

Tagaret squeezed her arm. “It’s about Selimna. Della, the old Alixi died. The city has no leader.”

“What?” She stepped backward, looking from Tagaret, to Selemei’s hinting smile, and back. “He—he died?” Too many plans, fears, and hopes whirled in her head at once. But if holy Mother Elinda had taken the Alixi to join the stars . . .

“Yes,” said Tagaret. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

Their chance. To escape Nekantor’s unrelenting gaze, to escape the Residence, the stifling Pelismara Society, and the capital itself. Imagine! Selimna could be their own city, a place where they could begin to break down the oppressive rules of caste, just as they’d dreamed and planned for so long. And as it happened, she was holding a small piece of it in her hand—a little sweatier for having been clenched in her fist on the run over.

“Tagaret,” she said. “I found paper merchants for you. Is that part of our plan?”

Tagaret considered the paper. “Paper provided by special arrangement with Dorlis and Nenda, Melumalai. That’s intriguing.” He glanced at Selemei. “Is this still useful to you?”

“What’s it for, Lady?” Della asked.

“It’s for my piece of the Selimna plan,” said Lady Selemei. “I’ve learned that the city government is choosing a paper supplier for the next four years. It’s a huge contract. I thought if I could get involved, even indirectly, I could potentially help you both—maybe arrange some favors and set you up with reputation in the Selimna Society.”

“I think this looks perfect, don’t you?” Tagaret asked, gesturing with the program. “I like the idea of Melumalai who’ve negotiated directly with Kartunnen. Since we want to break down caste rules, that kind of open-mindedness could help us a lot.”

“Mistress,” said Selemei’s Ustin, “any unfinished negotiations will have been suspended when the Alixi died. They may resume with the appointment of the new Alixi, or they may even start over.”

“Thanks, Ustin,” said Selemei. “That’s helpful information.”

“Even better, I would guess,” said Tagaret.

Della nodded. “So now, Nekantor just has to appoint you.”

Behind her, another knock sounded, and she pressed her lips shut. No more secrets. Who was this at the door?

Tagaret’s Kuarmei went and opened it. The moving air wafted in the odor of mustache wax, which intensified with the arrival of Arbiter Lorman of the First Family Council. His job was to protect the continuance and reputation of the First Family, so understandably, he was agitated. Instead of preening his whiskers as usual, he was wringing his hands, to the significant detriment of a pair of brown gloves. If they were lucky, he’d be unsettled enough to spare them his usual lectures about duty, tradition, and Tagaret’s late father Garr.

Lady Selemei went to Lorman and took his hand. “Arbiter, are you well?”

“No,” Lorman said bluntly. “We’re under attack.”

“I heard,” Selemei replied. “But we’re safe, and so is Adon. My other assistants went home half an hour ago. I haven’t yet had time to contact my sons at work, but we’ve had no emergency messengers.”

Arbiter Lorman pursed his lips, bunching his mustache. “I’ll go check on your sons next, then, Lady. Thank Heile all of you are well. And you’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No, sir,” said Tagaret.

“This attack is an outrage; we have to respond. Have any of the attackers been identified?”

Della took a step forward. “The attacker was an Arissen woman,” she said. “That’s all we know right now. She was killed by a Cohort guard.”

Lorman turned to her, blinking. He frowned and started twisting his whiskers.

Of course he hadn’t noticed her at all until this moment. Della forced a smile and tried not to breathe through her nose. When he next spoke, Lorman no longer used the tense clarity he’d entered with, but his favorite poorly affected Selimnar accent.

“So, so. We’ll see who was responsible.” He cast a keen eye at Tagaret. “So, is that paper you’re holding?”

Della froze. Had he overheard their earlier conversation? How could he? She could see Tagaret’s shoulders tense, but he answered calmly enough.

“Of course it’s paper. It’s a program Della was showing me, for some musicians who are visiting Pelismara.”

Hand of Sirin, she shouldn’t have brought that program here—now Lorman would get suspicious, and Nekantor would have an excuse to move against Selemei, and their thirteen years of planning would be for nothing, even if their subversion weren’t fully discovered . . .

“So, paper is so ridiculously expensive,” Lorman said meaningfully.

“Indeed it is.”

Della braced herself for some dreadful accusation, but Lorman only reached into his pocket and pushed something into Tagaret’s hand. “So, so. I’m glad you’re safe. So I’ll go check on the others, now. I wish your father Garr were here; he’d know just how to respond to this atrocity.” He strode out the door that his manservant held open for him.

Della took the first deep breath she’d dared since he came in. “Mercy of Heile, that was close.” Even what remained of his smell was awful; she tried to wave it away from her nose. “Ooh, that mustache wax—why can’t he depilate like everyone else?”

“I’m sorry, darling.” Tagaret gave her a squeeze. “It does have an odd perfume. Selemei, do you think he suspects anything?”

The Lady shook her head. “For a moment I worried, but surely if he did, he would have pursued it. What did he give you?”

“A blank card.” Tagaret turned it over, looking puzzled. “Maybe it’s a paper sample? I don’t see how it can have anything to do with Selimna’s paper contract negotiations.” He held it up: it was heavy tillik-silk paper, edged with gold on one side, corners dipped in gold on the other. Precious; and beautiful enough to display on a bedside table.

“May I have it?” Della asked.

“Yes, absolutely.”

Tagaret’s gloved fingertips brushed hers as he passed it to her. She removed a glove to feel it with one finger. Its surface was soft, its gold-dipped corners cold.

“Unfortunately, we now have a different problem,” said Lady Selemei. “I implied to Lorman that Pyaras had gone home.”

Della’s stomach flipped. She glanced to Tagaret, who had dropped his face into his hands. “Tagaret, did Pyaras tell you where he was going, when he left?”

Tagaret looked up from the cover of his gloves, wincing.

“Of course not.” Della felt sick all over again. “This is all wrong. Why a child, the very future of the Grobal Race? Why Adon? It’s disgusting.”

“I agree.” Lady Selemei’s deep brown eyes glittered with outrage. “The only time assassination attempts even begin to make sense is during an Heir Selection, but I’ve heard nothing to suggest that Eminence Herin is unwell. I don’t see this as a plausible response to the inoculant program—most objectors I know are demanding more guards to protect them from exposure to Lowers.”

“There are already more guards,” said Della.

Lady Selemei nodded. “I mean, even more than we have now.”

“My first thought is Heir Selection,” Tagaret said. “Adon’s excellent health makes him obviously suitable as an Heir candidate. But it would have made more sense to attack him when he first turned twelve and became eligible.”

Selemei pressed her lips together. “I agree. It’s worth looking into, though. The Fifth and Third Families are the most likely suspects for an attack like this. Let me see what I can learn about their recent activities.”

Della pulled her glove back on, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this—I just can’t. How can this kind of thing keep happening? Who just decides to hire an Arissen to kill someone, as if murder were an item in a shop? Is there a murder shop?”

“Yeah.” Tagaret grimaced. “I’ve even been targeted, and I’ve never heard the question asked in quite that way.”

“The Pelismara Society accepts a lot of dangerous traditions,” Selemei said. “I suspect the three of us work well together because it’s in our nature to question such things. For now, you should both go home where you’ll be safe.”

“Lady, you should, too,” said Della. “Shall we walk you to your suite, or will your Ustin be sufficient protection?”

“I’m quite confident in my Ustin.” Selemei smiled. The blonde Imbati woman bowed.

“We’ll wish you a safe evening, then.”

Tagaret came to Della and kissed her. The tips of his brown hair brushed against her forehead. Desire rose in her again—a familiar feeling, but so long gone its return was a shock. She twined her fingers in his, and they hurried back through the stone halls, while their bodyguards stalked on either side, wary of every window, every door.

The thought of their younger cousin nagged at her. Pyaras had unusual habits that he didn’t even share with Lady Selemei, much less Arbiter Lorman.

Where was he? How could they warn him?