CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Heroes
It was awful every time Veriga put himself in danger. Pyaras watched Tagaret’s office door, rubbing his temples anxiously. Veriga was in there right now, in his capacity as police investigator, interviewing Imbati Aloran.
Pyaras paced around the couches, the chairs, the fancy gaming table. Again. He touched the top of his head where the hairs were growing back. The skin there still felt strange and fragile.
Veriga interviewing Aloran, by itself, wasn’t so disturbing. However, it meant the investigation had reached the First Family, which was bad. Veriga would be safer in the midst of a deadly ongoing disaster.
At last the door to the office swung open. Aloran emerged first, blank-faced and moving like a machine—an Imbati defensive formality you saw all the time, but unusual for Aloran. Being interviewed by an Arissen couldn’t have been easy for him. At least he got to be questioned by someone who wasn’t a stranger.
Veriga’s hand appeared on the doorjamb, then his arm in Arissen red, crossed by the moon-yellow of a mourning armband. Last came his face, somber beneath the edge of his round police helmet. “Pyaras, come in here for a minute, please.”
“Oh. Sure, yes, of course.”
Since every noble suite had a room with the same function in precisely the same location, he felt odd walking into Tagaret’s office. The office in his own house was an uncomfortable place, ostensibly his but still largely Father’s. This place was just the opposite, with a thick carpet, a couch, and a warm lamp. The desk had a player machine for musical recordings sitting on one corner, which was very, very Tagaret. If his cousin hadn’t just been in Selimna, the walls would probably have been full of art.
Thank the Twins Tagaret and Della had come back.
Poor Della. May Heile keep her safe . . .
“Shut the door,” Veriga said.
Pyaras shut the door. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it. Are you in danger?”
“Not immediate danger,” said Veriga. “But yes. I’m handling some very sensitive information that I will need to deliver directly to the Chief of the Pelismar Police.”
“Sensitive information,” Pyaras echoed, and shivered. Assembling evidence to implicate Nekantor in all of the deaths was potentially deadly.
“That’s not what I called you in here for. Early this morning I was asked to produce a list of the people who aided the victims of the arena explosion, and a basic description of their contributions. When I delivered it, I was informed that the list would be forwarded to the Speaker of the Cabinet. The heroes will be called before the cabinet at four afternoon today to have those contributions recognized.”
“Did that list include me?”
“I am pleased to say that it did.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
“And—oh, gods help me.”
Veriga stared at him levelly. “Yes. It also included Arissen Melín. I thought you should know.”
Pyaras gulped, and his heart pounded. He’d sworn never to crossmark again, so he’d worn only a casual white shirt and gray trousers to the game. Melín hadn’t seemed to notice or care. But he’d been in an arena full of Arissen, sitting with his friend who was an Arissen. As honest as he’d thought he was, it wasn’t honest enough.
He couldn’t wear casual clothes to a cabinet meeting. Even if he did, he could no longer hide his name.
Sirin and Eyn, he didn’t want to!
But the abyss in his stomach told him that Melín wouldn’t see it as honesty.
“Thank you for telling me, Veriga,” he said.
“Young nobleman, I suspect you’ve got some decisions to make.”
The big decisions were impossible; he focused on smaller ones. He knocked at the door of his cousin’s rooms. “Adon? Are you in there?”
Adon didn’t answer.
He knocked harder. “The Arissen investigator is gone, Adon, please, I need to talk to you.”
A muffled, grumpy voice came from behind the door. “Gnash it, Pyaras, why are you always so loud?”
About to bang on the door again, Pyaras quickly pulled his hand back. “I’m sorry, all right? I need your help. I have, uh, an event. And I don’t know what to wear.”
A second later, the bronze door cracked open, with Adon’s eye behind it. “You swear you’re not messing with me.”
“I swear by the Twins,” Pyaras said. “I have to go before the cabinet with some people.” Before Melín. The more he thought about it, the harder it was to stand still.
The door opened by an inch. “Why?”
“Uh, because they think we’re heroes?”
“Well.” Adon leaned out, one shoulder on the door and the other on the jamb. “You sure aren’t dressed like a hero now.”
Pyaras looked down. This pink suit was one he liked, but he was ready to admit it wasn’t the latest style. He opened out his hands. “Come to my house?”
“Not without bodyguards.”
“Of course not.” He’d brought his Jarel with him; he wasn’t making that mistake again. The problem was, with an Heir Selection coming at them fast, Tagaret had gone out to strategize with the First Family Council, so his Kuarmei wasn’t available. And even if poor Imbati Aloran hadn’t needed a break after his interview, Lady Tamelera never lent him to anyone. That left only one bodyguard they could conceivably make an arrangement with. “We have to ask if we can borrow Della’s Yoral.”
Adon’s face crumpled slightly. “Yoral is really upset right now. But I guess we can talk to him.”
They went and knocked on the other bedroom door. After a second or two, Pyaras knocked again. Unexpectedly, Adon’s hand slipped into his. He almost jumped, but then squeezed his cousin’s fingers.
Della’s Yoral opened the door, blank-faced. “Sirs, my Mistress is indisposed and should not be disturbed.”
“May we speak with her?” Pyaras asked.
Yoral’s face twitched. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
She’d seemed fine until just before the doctors arrived. He rubbed his hand across his mouth. Della shouldn’t have become an unrecognized casualty of yesterday’s events.
Also, if Yoral was too upset to leave, Adon wouldn’t be going out.
“Yoral,” Adon said, “would you be willing to come down the hall with us for a few minutes?” Yoral didn’t answer. “If the Kartunnen can be trusted?” Adon waited again, while Yoral said nothing. “Aloran is an excellent nurse. If he came in to see her, maybe he would know what to do.”
Yoral inclined his head. “If you would please ask your mother to come for a visit, young Master.”
“Perfect. I’m sure that will help.” Adon pulled his hand away and ran off across the private drawing room.
“Yoral,” Pyaras said. “I’m . . . sorry.” Words didn’t seem weighty enough to convey what he meant. He tried to find something else to say, but then Adon returned, carrying a small case, followed closely by Lady Tamelera and her Aloran. They went straight in.
Yoral stepped out and bowed. “Just a few minutes, please, young Master.”
“Of course,” said Adon.
His young cousin did have a gift for understanding Imbati. The three of them walked out together through the sitting room to the vestibule, where Imbati Jarel joined them. Pyaras found Adon’s hand sneaking into his again as they walked down the hall.
“So, Pyaras . . . I brought some things. I’m going to make you look great.”
“You’d better.” Oops, that sounded terrible. Pyaras shook his head. “Adon, sorry, I’m just nervous because of . . . the people I’m going to see.” It was more than just Melín. “Nekantor, for one.”
“Nekantor doesn’t care what you look like,” said Adon.
“The rest of the cabinet will.” And Nekantor would hate seeing him in a line of Arissen, no matter what he wore. He let go of Adon’s hand for the spiral stairway to the second floor.
Pyaras pressed his hand to unlock his front door, and greeted the First Housewoman as they entered. Escorting Adon past Mother’s colorful pouf in the sitting room and taking him back into the private areas of the house, where Father was resting, brought the blood rushing into his face. It was the weirdest feeling to have his cousin here—wonderful, yet it made him ache.
Adon was looking around. “Do you get the whole master bedroom to yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky. Why in Varin’s name do you spend so much time at our house?”
Pyaras shrugged, opening his door. “I don’t know; I just always have.”
Adon took charge of the room immediately. He set down his case, went to the framed-glass wardrobe against the left wall, and opened its tall doors with a flourish. After a second, he cast over a skeptical look. “You really don’t have a lot to work with. Maybe we should start with the ruby velvet.”
“No—not red.” The last thing he wanted was to look like someone pretending to be Arissen. “But, actually, Grobal green isn’t much better.”
Adon raised his eyebrows. “So we’re left with variations on sapphire, beryl, and feldspar-gray. Are you serious?”
“I’d let you take me shopping, except it’s this afternoon.”
Adon looked at him and sighed. “Also, if we go out, people might try to shoot at us.”
“Again.”
“Right?” Adon looked back into the wardrobe and pushed some things to one side with dissatisfaction. “You’re wearing tourmaline now. I suppose we could just add a few things to it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ooh, wait, what about this one? It’s not red or green, and it’s not as overly popular as sapphire velvet. I could work with this.” He pulled it out: it was blue-gray matte silk, finely tailored, with matching piping along the seams, and no other embellishments at all.
“Oh.” Pyaras winced. “That was my dad’s.”
“So, it doesn’t fit?”
“Well, we did have it altered.”
Adon flashed him a look.
“All right, all right.” He excused himself and put it on in the bathroom. The fit was just fine, but it still felt awkward. He braced himself for Adon’s assessment.
The boy’s eyes lit. “You look basic, Pyaras.”
“Ugh.”
“In a good way, though. We can add things.” He picked up his case, crossed to the foot of Pyaras’ large bed, and opened it out. There were pretty things inside—neck-scarves and handkerchiefs and jewels. “Let’s use these button covers,” Adon said, plucking out some that looked like diamond. “And this scarf, I think. I’ll tie it for you. You’re going to have to supply your own gloves.”
“All right.”
When Adon was finished with him, he was afraid to look in the long mirror that hung inside his bathroom door. But when he did, he had to admit his cousin had an eye. He didn’t look forty, as he might have feared, probably because Adon had tied his neck-scarf in the latest style. The jewels glinted on his buttons, and the tint of his pale gray gloves provided a subtle contrast to the color of the suit.
Adon peeked in at him. “Now, you look like a hero.”
“If you say so.”
Gods help me, I don’t look like a hero. I look like a nobleman.
But it was only the truth.
Pyaras walked into the central section of the Residence in an anguish of dread. This was a dangerous time, and his Jarel was here to make sure Paper Shadows didn’t target him as a potential First Family Heir candidate, but he was far more worried about Melín. At every turn, he half expected her to appear out of nowhere and knock him out cold.
Every movement felt wrong. His breathing was tight, and his buttons were heavy, and his cheeks burned. He tugged at his neck-scarf with one gloved finger, but it didn’t help much.
“Sir,” said his Jarel from behind his shoulder, “you may not want the Eminence to see you fidgeting.”
“I may not want the Eminence to see me at all.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“It’s not your fault, Jarel. It’s mine.” He thought of Melín again, and stopped as his rib cage tried to close down on his lungs. He just couldn’t breathe like this. Sorry, Adon. He pulled the stylish knot of his scarf until it came undone. “Can you take this, please, Jarel?”
“Of course, sir.”
He started walking again. There might be people waiting in the hall when he reached the central section. And he’d just wrecked the top anchor of his look. He stopped again.
“Do I look unbalanced?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m just going to do this anyway.” He clicked off his button-covers, and handed them to Jarel.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Stupid as he felt for panicking, he couldn’t just tell himself not to panic. He forced a deep breath into his lungs, tugged his gloves straight, and started walking again.
There were people outside the cabinet chamber when he arrived. Sixteen, at least, standing around talking in hushed voices.
At least half of them were Arissen in dress uniforms, some wearing the front-brimmed, low-crested helmets of the Division, others wearing the smooth round helmets of the Police. A few faces turned when he arrived, but he wasn’t about to start searching for Veriga. Mai’s truth, it was probably safer for Veriga not to publicly align himself with a nobleman.
There was also a clump of Kartunnen who had to be the Cave-Cats’ team doctors, because he recognized the woman he had followed. She wasn’t dressed as a doctor today. She’d painted her lower lip dark green, and she wore a long, flowing dress coat in the regulated pale gray of her caste.
He couldn’t see Melín. She would be here, though. Probably just hidden somewhere behind the tall, Arissen-red backs. He wanted to go looking for her, but it would disturb everyone. He shouldn’t force her to be seen with him in public.
Or tempt her to knock him out cold.
Movement. Over the heads of the group, the door to the cabinet chamber had opened, and people started moving through. The Manservant to the Eminence was the only Imbati permitted in the chamber; that much he remembered.
“Thank you, Jarel,” he said. “I’ll see you afterward.”
“I’ll wait right here, sir.”
Pyaras hung back long enough for all the others to enter. He gritted his teeth. Then he pinched at the fingers of his gloves, and pulled them off. He stuffed them into his jacket pocket as he walked in.
The cabinet chamber was just as he’d always heard: Grobal-green carpet under his feet, a big brass table with tall matching chairs, stone walls filled with heavy wood-framed portraits of former Eminences. A beautiful portrait of Herin had already been added, low near the front of the room where Nekantor now sat in the Eminence’s chair.
So Nek had finally got what he’d always wanted for the First Family. He was wearing his usual simple light brown suit: clean lines and buttonless coat over a three-button vest and a white shirt. His back was straight as a pole, his eyes were hungry, and his face was . . . pleasant. Which meant he’d decided this meeting was a performance.
Fair enough. Everyone here was performing.
Pyaras looked away along the assembled cabinet members before his cousin’s restless gaze could meet his. He gave a nod to Lady Selemei. Ah—there was Veriga, standing proudly behind Kaspri of the Fifth Family. Where was Melín?
“I call to order this meeting of the Pelismar Cabinet, and serve as a reminder of the Grobal Trust,” said a young voice. Nekantor’s Dexelin, newly the Manservant to the Eminence, had begun speaking. “Giving to each according to need, the hand of the Grobal shall guide the eight cities of Varin.”
Speaker Fedron of the First Family stood up.
A sharp hiss of shock jabbed into the moment’s silence.
That had to be her. Pyaras turned his head.
Oh, Sirin and Eyn, Melín. She stood behind Amyel of the Ninth Family and Tass of the Tenth. She wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a high-necked, formal white shirt with long sleeves and an embroidered over-tunic of Arissen-red silk. Her hair was oiled, she wore gold rings and diamonds in her ears, and even the sunmarks on her face made her glow brighter than everyone around her. Desire electrified him; he flushed hot all the way to his feet. She was so beautiful he couldn’t breathe—
—and she was so, so angry.
“Welcome,” said Speaker Fedron. “Thank you all for joining us. We asked you here today because Varin has just experienced one of the most tragic days in its history. We wish to honor the sacrifices of those who died, and to honor all of you, the heroes whose intervention prevented the casualties from being so much worse.”
Pyaras tried not to glance toward Melín, but he couldn’t really help it. Speaker Fedron was speaking of the impact of needless deaths—both those inside the Eminence’s dining room and at the arena—and watching Nekantor feign concern made his skin twitch. Once when he looked over, Melín was glaring at him, her eyes wide and her lips pressed together. He looked away.
With ceremony, the Manservant to the Eminence produced a dark cylinder and unrolled it down the brass table. It was paper, black as the home of Elinda, upon which the names of Herin’s Argun, Plist’s Rowyeth, and the thirty-six Arissen dead had been written in gold. An appropriate recognition for people who had suddenly been stolen away to take their places among the stars. Spirit globes would hang in their homes; but now, they could be remembered in death by something glimmering and beautiful that could be seen by all. Nekantor’s Dexelin slowly read the entire list aloud, name after name, in the silence of the crowded chamber. When he finished, he bowed.
Murmured prayers flitted among the assembled people. “Elinda keep them,” Pyaras whispered.
Nekantor coughed.
“These names will hang in the Eminence’s Library in perpetuity,” said Speaker Fedron. “And beside them will hang the names of the heroes who saved lives on this terrible day. Your names.”
Now Nekantor’s Dexelin unrolled a second scroll, this one black ink on white paper. Easier to read, fewer names. Pyaras found himself there, the longest name in the list: Grobal Pyaras of the First Family. Then he found Arissen Veriga, and Arissen Melín. There were also the other Arissen, and the Kartunnen. One of those names would belong to the doctor he’d helped.
He sneaked a glance at Melín, and found her frowning—not at him this time, thank Sirin and Eyn, but at the paper on the table.
The Manservant to the Eminence spoke. “Now, I will call out the names of the heroes to be heard and recognized by the Eminence of Varin. When you hear your name, please come to the front and receive a pin.”
Nekantor stood up from his chair and thoroughly straightened his clothes, betraying some impatience. His Dexelin set a small silver tray of pins on the table in front of him.
“Kartunnen Mohemei,” Dexelin began.
Pyaras watched Nekantor. Under normal circumstances he would love to see his cousin make some mistake and show his true character, but the people here deserved better. As each one approached the front, Nekantor took up a pin and dropped it into their palm. One by one they walked up and then proceeded out the main door.
“Kartunnen Yaleni . . . Arissen Budrien . . .”
Yaleni was the doctor he had helped. Her face was sober and professional.
Maybe he didn’t belong here. All he’d done was hand her things. And now Melín hated him. But why shouldn’t she, when he’d been false all along?
“Arissen Melín . . . Arissen Veriga . . . Grobal Pyaras of the First Family.”
He didn’t fit. It was excruciatingly obvious. He walked along the backs of the chairs and got in line behind Veriga. Melín didn’t look at him. She walked to the front with as much formality as if she had been in uniform, and accepted the pin from the Eminence’s thin hand without a word. Veriga accepted his with a click of his heels. And then it was his turn.
Nekantor was smirking at him. Gnash this whole thing, he wasn’t going to dignify that look with comment. He held out his hand, and Nek dropped the pin into it.
“Pyaras,” Nekantor said.
“Thank you, your Eminence,” said Pyaras. He turned to the cabinet members. “Thank you, to all of you.” Then he turned away and walked out. He didn’t look at what he had in his hand until he reached the hall outside.
It was an Arissen honor pin, like the kind Commander Tret wore on the collar of his uniform. He was going to keep this, even if it had come from Nekantor’s hand.
“Hey. Grobal Pyaras of the First Family.”
Oh, no.
He looked up from the pin in his hand. Melín was standing right in front of him, every part of her body stiff with anger, as striking and as painful as sunlight.
He tried. “I’m sor—”
“I am never going to see you again.”