CHAPTER THREE

Transformation

Pyaras leapt out of his dressing room with a flourish and cried, “Transformation!”

Nobody was here. The aisle between the rows of blue curtains was empty.

“Oh, come on,” Pyaras said. “Veriga, aren’t you out yet?”

There was a mirror at the turn of the row; glimpsing his reflection, Pyaras grinned. He looked nothing like a dutiful cabinet assistant in the costume the club had provided: scandalous short trousers, and a vest of brass-studded leather. His bare knees tingled. Oh, and if he pulled the tie out of his hair—yes, that was it. Shaking his dark locks out past his shoulders he looked like the domo card from dareli. Sort of. Really, he was nothing the Pelismara Society had ever seen—something from another place, another planet! He was ready.

“Veriga, where are you?”

“Over here.” His friend’s gruff voice echoed from beyond a curtain. “I’m not in such a hurry to take my clothes off.”

“That’s not fair.” But Veriga wasn’t wrong. He did love to strip out of the sense of obligation that the Pelismara Society placed on him; and there was no denying he felt thirsty, from his throat all the way down to where it counted. Kethani, the woman he’d met here last time, had worn a similar scandalous costume: tight pants and a top that left her arms and navel bare. Taking that off her had been an interesting challenge. Maybe she’d be here tonight.

He licked his lips and realigned the sexual-health bracelet on his left wrist. The bracelet stored medical information, and he’d promoted it heavily to other young men of the nobility, until it became the most popular medical invention of the last eight years. It felt great to know he’d boosted the health of the Race—and it sure spared him a lot of awkward conversations on his evenings out. “You ready yet?”

The older man grunted. “Do we have to do this?”

“Are you serious? We’ve paid, and we’ve got food to eat, drinks to drink, and people to meet.” Pyaras walked down the aisle toward the door, hung with a blue-tinted mirror above which the name ‘Lake Club’ was traced in blue neon. He checked back over his shoulder for Veriga, and gaped.

He was pretty used to Veriga looking like a stone giant, but in costume, whoa. Veriga’s muscles bulged from beneath a drape of silver net, and his short skirt looked like . . . knives? “You’re in the mood for attention.”

“This is nothing.”

“I get it, you’re playing with me.” But no point in arguing. Veriga would do well to pull attention down off his face, which was prematurely aged with the scars of a poisoning soon after they first met.

No, don’t think like that. No outside thoughts in Lake Club.

Pyaras pushed through the mirrored door. The space beyond was large and dim. Strings of false jewels dangled like illuminated blue stalactites from the ceiling, raising a weird city of jeweled towers in the mirror that covered the floor. In between were tables, chairs, and a stage where a beautiful man in ribbons sang a throbbing song. Mysterious masked and costumed people moved, rightside-up and upside-down, between the jeweled realms, and he couldn’t tell what caste they were. In this one place, people could just be human. Delicious!

He found his way to the drinks table first. Mystery was the flavor of the night—he chose a glass at random. It turned out to be only smoked chatinet. Drinkable. He swigged it with a shrug. Veriga was offered a drink by a graceful person who seemed to know him. She led him off to a table by the stage.

Eh, let him go. Maybe company would improve his mood.

Pyaras inhaled the fantastical world of costume and desire. Was that Kethani over by the waterfall? He pushed closer between the spectators . . . No. It was only some stranger. He would have to start all over. Disappointed, he drifted to a nearby table.

A couple was here, already halfway through their drinks: a woman with long, straight hair and a ruffled costume, and a pale, muscular young man with a shaved head that gleamed in the blue light. Impossible to join their conversation, when they were already enthralled with one another.

Pyaras leaned his elbows on the table, pressed the glass circle of his drink against his lips, and sighed smoke-scented air into his own eyes. Gnash it, he wasn’t all dressed up just to get drunk. He put the glass down.

A hand set down a tall glass beside his.

He looked up. This new person was statuesque, wearing layers of flowing fabric. Eyes intense, breasts magnificent—and resting on the bare skin between them was a bronze medallion, so, a chosen of Mai. Mai the Right chose people who shared one’s nature, which implied another kind of mystery to come if the two of them were well matched. One was beautiful: arched brows, full cheeks, lips curving up at the corners. Oooh . . . he offered one his left wrist and held his breath.

One tapped one’s bracelet to his; two tiny lights flashed. No chance of disease transmission, and no chance of pregnancy. A match.

Nice. He exhaled with a grin. “I’m Pyaras.”

“My name is Rivai.” One’s voice was breathy, pitched just above the song of the man on the stage. No accent, unlike Kethani, who’d moved here from Peak.

Who are you? What kind of work do you do?

No, those were caste questions. What was he going to do, break the mood? Judging by the number of people heading for the stairs the moment they’d tapped bracelets, some club-goers wanted to skip talking. That wasn’t his style. You had to get to know someone, and let them get to know you. Otherwise what would be the point? “Rivai, would you like to dance?”

One smiled. “I’d be happy to.”

They moved away from the tables, to the open space where costumes swirled, and dancers’ feet scissored with their reflections on the floor. Some people danced across from one another; others, shockingly, body to body. Envy made him ache. He couldn’t dance and hold one both at once, but Rivai was an astonishingly good dancer. Their feet never tangled, even when he took both one’s hands. In a pause, they looked at each other, panting, and Rivai smiled.

The singer announced a short break and left the stage. A recording came on that sent Pyaras’ feet automatically into the silatunmi—the most popular dance in the Society Clubs two years ago—and Rivai followed.

One could dance the silatunmi?

“You can really dance!” Pyaras grinned, but before they could jump into the next song, Rivai took a nervous step backward. Pyaras followed one’s gaze and found Veriga standing behind him.

“Hey, Veriga. What’s going on? I thought you’d found a friend.”

Veriga shrugged. “Wasn’t doing it for me. I’ve had enough of this place.”

When he’d barely started? “Well, I’d like you to meet Rivai. Rivai, don’t worry, this is my friend, Veriga.”

Veriga raised his gray eyebrows. “Really?”

“Sure. One’s a great dancer, too—knows the silatunmi, which I used to dance in the clubs a couple years ago.”

Veriga made an offensive face: disgust, maybe pity? “I’m going to assume you’re playing with me. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Pyaras said. “Gnash it, Veriga, what’s your problem?”

Veriga only clenched his jaw.

“Are you trying to make me angry? Why are you doing this?”

Veriga’s face twisted into incredulity. “Pyaras, don’t tell me you’ve confused this with a Society Club. You can’t look for a relationship here.”

“Why not? There’s no caste in Lake Club. That’s the whole point.”

“No caste? Plis and Mai on a stinking cracker, Pyaras!” The music had started again, but Veriga swore like a soldier, and people were staring. Veriga pointed to a bald muscular man. “He’s Arissen.” A woman in wings next to him. “She’s Kartunnen.” A nearby person in a mask. “Imbati.”

Ugh, ugh, ugh . . . Worse than seeing him do it was knowing instantly that he was right. Then Veriga turned back, and Pyaras felt Rivai brace oneself beside him. He put himself between them. “Don’t, Veriga.”

“Oh, I’ll spare your friend, because blessed Mai sees our hearts, and I’m feeling kind.”

“Gnash you!” Pyaras cried.

Veriga flung up a hand. “Like I said, I’m done. Rivai, you deserve better than this stinking place. Pardon me, sir.” He stalked off toward the dressing room.

Pyaras could only blink for several seconds. What in the name of Father Varin was that? Now he’d ruined everything!

“I’m sorry, Rivai,” he sighed. “I’m going to have to go talk to him.” He turned his back on the broken mirror world and stomped after Veriga.

The dressing room was only closed blue curtains and mundane lights. “Veriga?” Pyaras scanned for feet. “Veriga?” Maybe he was around the turn, in the second row? Still searching at foot level, he rounded the corner; a broad dark figure brought him upright with a gasp. “Varin’s teeth!”

“Please excuse me, sir.”

Pyaras recognized her then—powerful body, golden skin, black suit and tattooed forehead—thank heavens. “I’m sorry, Jarel. I didn’t see you.” But something was wrong; his manservant was not supposed to come into the club.

Imbati Jarel bowed. “Sir, we should go. I’ve identified a spy lurking out front.”

“That’s bad.”

“It’s worse, sir. He shows signs of having recognized me.”

Plis’ bones. Pyaras ran for his dressing room, fumbled open the locker, and almost tore his velvet suit getting it back on. Something was coming. Something bad. He burst back out.

Veriga was here, startling in white shirt and Arissen-red trousers. Beside him, powerful Jarel was minimized by her Imbati black.

“I’m on this,” Veriga said.

Good enough for an apology. Veriga could handle himself; he’d been a bodyguard in the Eminence’s Cohort even before he joined the police. Veriga headed around the turn and out the way they’d first come in; with Jarel now at her station, Pyaras followed into the dim, blue-lit entry hall. Clients entering through the windowless front door of the club strategically refused to look at them.

Veriga pushed out with police boldness, and the door swung shut.

Thud.

Oh, holy Twins, had he just sent Veriga to be shot?

Panic tried to split him from the top down. Pyaras squeezed his head between his hands. He shut his eyes—he shouldn’t have. The old images flooded in: Veriga in that hospital bed, twitching head to foot, a needle in his arm, a tube down his throat, all because he’d been assigned to protect Nekantor.

Why had he let Veriga try to protect him?

“I have to go out there,” he choked out. “I can’t let Veriga face a death meant for me!”

“I understand, sir,” Jarel said quietly. “But this is Arissen Veriga’s choice.”

Heart flailing, Pyaras fought the panic. Gnash it, gnash it . . .

Veriga’s gray head popped back in. “You’re clear. Come on out.”

Pyaras gasped. “Really?”

Veriga shrugged. “Whoever he was, he’s gone. Maybe he realized the Imbati saw him.”

I’m stupid and childish. One thing to say so; another to make his heart stop pounding. Walking into the street, Pyaras searched for signs of danger. The atmospheric lamps on the cavern roof had gone dark for nighttime not long ago. The mercantile district’s shops and restaurants were busy with Lowers—the gray coats of Kartunnen artisans were weirdly luminous under streetlights, while darker clumps of people occasionally flashed with bright reflections of silver from Melumalai castemark necklaces. No obvious threats, but it would be easy for a spy or assassin to hide on a shop roof, or vanish in shadows among the moving bodies.

They returned to their parked skimmer without a word spoken. Pyaras took his seat beside Veriga, Jarel engaged the vehicle’s repulsion, and after maneuvering around a few stray pedestrians, they accelerated into the circumference.

Around the corner from the next radius, two skimmers came heading in their direction. Something was odd—neither seemed to be passing the other. Pyaras tensed.

As the vehicles drew closer, they caught the aura of a streetlight, revealing three Eminence’s Cohort guards, and Cousin Nekantor.

Oh, sweet Heile, not Nekantor! Had that spy been one of his?

Imbati Jarel braked to a stop. Pyaras gripped the cushioned edge of his seat to stand up, and glared into his cousin’s face. Nekantor had cheekbones as sharp as his wits, and that touch of gray hair that everyone said made him look even more handsome—but Pyaras had never been fooled. Nek was ugly underneath. You had to look right at him, or risk drawing his attention to something he might destroy.

Varin’s teeth.

If that spy had been Nekantor’s, then he would take Lake Club apart until nothing was left but bare limestone.

Sure enough, Nekantor narrowed his eyes and sent a scathing gaze over the surrounding buildings. His mouth pulled into a grimace of disgust. “Pyaras, come back to the Residence at once.”

Pyaras gritted his teeth. “Why?”

“You’re in danger.”

Tell me something I don’t know. “Not that you care.”

“I do care. The Fifth Family is after you.”

If that information was some kind of bait, he wasn’t going to take it. “Look how you give yourself away, Nek. You only care because I’m a First Family asset.”

Nekantor twitched. “Come home. Leave your pet Arissen here; he can find his own way. You would be a lot easier to protect if you weren’t constantly muckwalking.”

“Easier to control, you mean.” This place was less safe by the second, but gnash it, he wasn’t just going to do as Nek said.

Nekantor shifted, now a gaunt shadow outlined with orange on one side; he flicked one hand along his sleeve. “Pyaras, if you come back now, I’ll name you Executor to the Pelismara Division.”

What he’d wanted for years. A bribe? More likely a lie. Pyaras snorted and bent forward to Jarel’s ear. “Do you believe thi—”

Zzap!

Pyaras screamed. It burns, it burns! He clutched the top of his head—mercy, his hands were burning! The skimmer jerked forward, knocking him into his seat. Heavy fabric smothered him. Blows pounded his head—gods!—the skimmer swerved sickeningly—I can’t see—

The heavy drape dragged away. It was Veriga’s coat; Veriga shook it, and laid it across his lap. “Fire’s out,” he said. “Name of Plis, I’m sorry.”

“Aaaaargh,” Pyaras moaned.

“That assassin was a Paper Shadow, or I wouldn’t have missed him. You’re lucky to have a face, young nobleman.”

“Thank Sirin—aaaargh.” His head still felt on fire. His hands stung. Somehow, they’d come to the top of a level rampway near the edge of the city-caverns. A fall of limestone created a wall behind it. Their skimmer dropped into the bore, and Jarel braked down the steep slope beside the pedestrian steps until they arrived in the well-lit neighborhoods of the fifth level. Tentatively, Pyaras felt for his burning head with his stinging fingers.

A huge clump of hair and ash fell off in his hands.

If he hadn’t bent to talk to his Jarel, he’d be dead.

Sirin’s blessed luck. At least it was me, and not Veriga.

Jarel was driving at legal speeds now. Pain stretched the seconds. Home, home, come on, come on—at last, the iron fence of the Residence grounds loomed out of the dark.

And Veriga was still here.

“Gnash it, Veriga, I forgot to take you home. I was hurting instead of thinking.”

“Eh,” Veriga grunted. “Doesn’t matter. Police will be called. I should be there.”

“So you can make a statement? All right.” Pyaras winced. “But I’m not letting my Family question you. You shouldn’t have to deal with those people again.”

“I’ll talk to the police. Officer to officer. I saw more of it than you.” He shook his head, and his voice fell to a growl. “And I should have seen him before.”

“It’s all right. I’m all right.”

“Yeah.”

Jarel turned into the Conveyor’s Hall, pulling the skimmer in beneath the wide stone arch. She braked to a halt and turned off repulsion. Pyaras got up slowly. So much pain—was his hair still smoldering? Jarel was talking to the team of Imbati, all attentive in their black suits with their crescent-cross Household tattoos.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. The Household team wouldn’t just return the skimmer to their collection of vehicles; they’d also inform every other Imbati in the Residence about the attack. So now, everyone would know what had happened. And where. And who he’d been with. He’d lost so many friends over Veriga . . .

Varin’s teeth, I’ll never hear the end of it.

No, go home. Just get home, where medicine cabinets built by Lowers for weak-blooded nobles would be helpful for once. He gritted his teeth walking across the gravel pathways, entered the suites wing, and climbed the spiral stairway.

Jarel pressed her palm to the front door lock, got the door open, and immediately vanished through the curtained door into the servants’ Maze.

The First Housewoman asked, “Would you care to sit, sir?”

“Not yet,” said Pyaras. “I have to tell Father what’s happened.”

She got the inner doors and Father’s bedroom door for him, because he couldn’t have done it with his hands in this state. Pyaras walked in with his bracelet hand behind his back, guilty as if he were sixteen and not twenty-five—that feeling, at least, wasn’t unusual.

It smelled of soap in here, and medicine. Father’s servants had carefully arranged painted screens to hide the medical equipment from view, but they couldn’t hide that smell. Father had been reclining against his pillows, playing with a handheld ordinator. As Pyaras walked in, though, he looked up and his eyes widened.

“Oh, my Pira—!”

“Father, I’m all right. Someone sent an assassin after me.”

“Holy Mother Elinda, thank you for staying your hand,” Father murmured.

“Yeah.” Pyaras held out his right hand: the palm was bright red, shiny, speckled with fragments of hair and ash. “I should get cleaned up. And I guess the police will be coming by in a little while.”

“I should be there to receive them.” Father tried to sit up straighter, and grimaced. He couldn’t always hide his frustration at the chronic inflammation and pain that had forced him to retire as a bureaucratic Administrator. His servants hovered near, attentively, but he waved them down.

“Please, Father,” Pyaras said, “it’s all right. I can talk to them, and if you have questions, we can have them come back to speak with you. Don’t ruin your whole week trying to do this.”

Father subsided, looking annoyed, but also relieved. “Please do have them come back, then.”

Pyaras nodded. He leaned over and patted the air just above Father’s arm so neither of them would be hurt. “I’ll just go get cleaned up.”

If it had just been him, he would have gone to his rooms. With Veriga here, though, and the prospect of an impending police visit, he went back out to the sitting room. Without thinking, he sat down on Mother’s brightly striped pouf, then realized he had no idea where to put his hands. Not down, obviously.

No dirty hands on your Mother’s pouf, Pira. Don’t stain her memory.

Pyaras sighed, and made a wry grimace at Veriga, who was sitting on the couch with forearms draped across his knees.

“Sir.” Imbati Jarel had set up a steel folding table with a towel, a basin of water, and a pair of scissors. The First Housewoman spread a cloth, and placed one of the brass dining chairs in its center.

“If you would have a seat, sir,” she said.

Pyaras moved to the new chair, but glanced sidewise at the folding table. “Jarel . . . what are the scissors for?”

Jarel leaned her head to one side. “Sir, your hair is—uneven.”

“Oh, gods, no.” This hair had taken years, and saved him endless harassment.

“Very good, sir.”

He nodded, and allowed them to wash and dry his hands. He would have preferred just to keep them in the cooling water. Jarel applied a medicinal salve, which made him hiss in pain but felt cool on his palms and the top of his head.

“We’ll have a pain pill for you in a moment, sir.”

He held on until it arrived, and gulped it gratefully while the First Housewoman held the glass. Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw Veriga making a face.

“What?”

Veriga rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Imbati,” he said, “you owe him a mirror, at least.”

“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Jarel replied stonily.

“What?” Pyaras demanded. “She owes me a mirror?” He looked between them.

Veriga shrugged. “Just saying.”

“Jarel, please get me a mirror.”

He didn’t miss the glare Jarel cast at Veriga as she brought it to him. He looked.

It wasn’t just that a chunk of his hair was missing. Half of the top of his head was essentially bare. Long strands at his left temple straggled pathetically, and even if the remaining hair on the right side hadn’t been damaged to a frizzle, it would have looked ridiculous.

“All right,” he sighed. “Do it, then.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The First Housewoman wrapped a cape around his neck, and Jarel came at him with the scissors. Snip, snip: the hard-won locks fell on the light cloth beneath the chair.

“Cousin Della will be so disappointed. She’ll think I changed my mind about her advice.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jarel said again.

“I didn’t, though. She was the one who finally figured out what would stop people calling me Arissen. It even looked good.” It had been a few years, now. Mai willing, they’d gotten over it.

Fool thought. How could anyone just ‘get over’ his size and health, almost unheard of amidst the decline of the Grobal Race, when their own continued to fail?

Whatever. He wasn’t a child any more. Anyone that petty could just go and die in a hole.

Call me Arissen. I dare you.