CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Shinca

It seemed all anyone could do was argue. Nekantor and Tagaret, arguing over his head. Arbiter Lorman, too. Arissen Melín, yelling at Tagaret about Della. Maybe he could have handled it better if he weren’t having to sleep in Tagaret’s office.

At least he had Dexelin, now.

It was still weird and uncomfortable. He still dressed himself, because why wouldn’t he? But Dexelin was in his room with him when he did it, in bodyguard stance, facing the window.

Whenever the curtains were open, he felt exposed, but when Dexelin closed them, he could feel invisible assassins gathering. Trying to let Dexelin feel included, he requested green gloves to match the green and black suit he’d gotten for his birthday—but then changed his mind after the servant had already handed them to him. If he’d been by himself, he wouldn’t have felt guilty putting them back and changing to black ones.

Someone banged on his door.

He froze. So did Dexelin.

Please, please, don’t be Nekantor.

Adon tugged his gloves tight, bracing himself to answer, then remembered Dexelin was supposed to do it. But if it was Nekantor, how could he even ask him to?

A voice echoed in from outside. “Adon, can I please talk to you? I promise I won’t break your door down.”

Oh, thank the Twins. Adon exhaled and opened the door himself. “Pyaras!”

“Adon, do me a favor?” His cousin’s eyes were too wide. “Eat before you leave today?”

“What?” He looked at him harder. “What’s wrong?”

Pyaras pressed his head between his hands, as if to keep it from splitting in two. “The thing is, they’re going to expect your bodyguard to eat and drink for you, before you do. Don’t let her. Please. Even if it means you don’t eat at all.”

“Uh—”

“Adon, please. Someone might try to poison you. How would you feel if she died?”

He gulped. “All right, I won’t. I promise.”

Pyaras deflated, sinking against the doorjamb. “Thank Heile for mercy.”

“Is Melín here?” Adon asked. “If we’re going to pretend-eat lunch, we should probably have more breakfast.” He eyed his cousin. “Did you forget to eat again?”

Pyaras didn’t answer.

“Come on.” Adon caught up Pyaras’ hand and pulled him out into the sitting room.

Arissen Melín was here, waiting beside the gaming table. Mai’s truth, the more he knew about her, the less ordinary she seemed. She was hardly taller than he was, but radiated an explosive potential that made you want to keep your distance. Her skin was sunmarked brown, with darker pinpoint spots across her cheeks and nose; brown eyes sharp as daggers judged everything from under her orange helmet. Dexelin was definitely afraid of her.

He glanced up at Pyaras, and found him gaping as if he’d been hit in the head.

All right, then. “Arissen Melín,” Adon said. “Are you hungry?”

She snapped to attention, so her heels clicked together. “No, thank you, sir.”

“I’m serious. I won’t be asking you to taste for me today, so Pyaras and I decided we should stuff ourselves up before we go. You should, too. Come on.” He headed into the dining room, counting on her to follow.

The Household had clearly been listening behind the walls, because Serjer emerged with tableware as they entered, and Keeper Premel appeared a second later with a tray. He cast Adon a smile, and transferred to the table a basket of bread rolls, a plate of sliced meats, a pitcher of water, and a butter dish.

“You’re so kind, Premel,” Adon said. Pyaras took the chair next to him, and eventually, Arissen Melín sat down in a place across from them. She sat with her back frighteningly straight, and a blank stare on her face.

Adon turned his attention to layering a roll with butter and meat. Some seconds later, he looked up. Neither of them had made a single move for the food.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Go on, eat.”

They both reached for the rolls at the same time. Melín got one; Pyaras shied off like the basket was hot.

Adon rolled his eyes. “I swear, why won’t you talk to each other like normal people?”

Arissen Melín instantly popped her roll into her mouth and held it there with her sunmarked fingers, as if it could save her from having to utter a word.

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Pyaras. “You’re too young.”

Adon glared at him. “Are you serious?”

Pyaras shrugged as if he didn’t care. But he did care, or he wouldn’t have asked him not to eat lunch, and they wouldn’t be here stuffing rolls in their mouths.

Never mind. Adon chomped on his first roll, eating with concentration until he’d finished it, and fixed himself another.

Halfway through that one, Serjer appeared at the dining room door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, young Master. The Eminence has arrived, with the Arbiter of the First Family Council.”

Oof.

The bite of roll in his mouth felt suddenly dry as dust. He swigged water to get it down, left the other half on his plate, and stuffed a final roll into his pocket. When he stood up, Melín and Dexelin came to places before and behind.

Here we go. Nekantor was standing in the sitting room, looking at his gold watch. He wore a light brown suit—Heile knew he probably owned four identical ones, because he always looked exactly the same when he wasn’t in fancy Eminence white. Arbiter Lorman was sitting on the couch. He looked to be taking on the day with fashion optimism, in lapis with fine jet stripes. He’d also trained his whisker-tips into loops. Lorman’s Oidi stood beside the couch arm, but Nekantor’s Cohort guards had remained in the vestibule—Adon could see their orange trouser-hems underneath the curtain.

“Good morning, young Adon.” The Arbiter smiled. “It’s a big, big day.”

Adon forced himself to smile. “Good morning.”

“Business,” Nekantor announced, glancing up and then back to his watch. “We’re meeting the Eighth Family today, for lunch, at Society Club Five.”

“I won’t be eating,” said Adon. “So you know.”

The Arbiter sat straighter. “Young Adon, that’s not polite.”

“It’s fine,” Nekantor said. “Just look enough like you’re eating to keep them satisfied. They’re going to see what they can get out of us in return for a vote. I have some plans for that.”

Plans—an uncomfortable thought. “What kind?”

“Several, which you don’t need to worry about. Caredes of the Eighth Family has a history of alliances with our departed father. They’ll expect you to talk about him.”

Talk about this, talk about that. Always the impossible. How could you talk about someone you’d never met? Someone who was Not Spoken Of, whose mere mention could break Tagaret?

Of course, Lorman saw his reaction, and smiled. “So, don’t worry, young Adon. I worked as Garr’s assistant for five years. So, I’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t really want help.

Arissen Melín snapped audibly to attention. “Sirs. We should discuss our route to the club.”

“It’s already decided.” Nekantor waved a hand. “We’ll walk to the Conveyor’s Hall and go from there.”

“Respectfully, sir, we won’t,” said Arissen Melín.

The Eminence scowled.

“Your Eminence,” said Melín. “Attacks started yesterday, earlier than you predicted. That suggests the chances of attack today are extreme. Skimmers won’t offer us the protection we need. I’ve planned a walking route. I’ll show you the map.”

“Walking!” Nekantor snapped. “We’ll be shot at. Skimmers will keep us out of range.”

“Bolt weapons fire faster than sight, your Eminence. The only thing skimmers can do is make risky maneuvers to confuse a shooter, which makes crashes a serious risk. I can show you my proposed route. If we leave within the next four minutes, we should arrive in plenty of time.”

“Arissen . . .” Nekantor’s tone was low and threatening. “You’ll do as I say.”

But she’d taken on Tagaret and won. Adon knew in his gut she wouldn’t back down. It was reassuring.

Arissen Melín saluted. “You, sir, may travel in any way you wish. I promise you, the route I’ve chosen will be safest for Grobal Adon of the First Family, given the high probability of shooting attacks.”

Nekantor pointed a long, thin finger toward her face. “He’d better be there. On time.”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

“Lorman,” Nekantor said. “Make sure of it.”

“Of course, your Eminence,” said the Arbiter.

Adon held his breath until his brother and the two Cohort guards had departed, then let it all out in a whoosh. “Melín?” he asked, shaking his head. “What’s so special about this route, that you think we can walk it safely?”

“One thing, sir. The best precaution against weapons fire,” the Arissen answered.

“What’s that?”

“Shinca.”

---

—

You didn’t exactly go through life counting shinca. They were just all around, here and there, sometimes in a room or a wall, or in the street. When you paid attention, though—like Melín obviously did—there were a lot. None in the hall outside the suite, but there was one in the wall of one of the guardrooms. And one right outside the exit Melín chose to use.

“Grobal Adon, sir,” she said. “Here’s how this works. You stand with your back against the shinca. It’ll feel hotter the longer you lean on it, but it’s safe. And I promise it won’t damage your fancy suit.” She winked.

He’d already inhaled to ask. He exhaled, blushing.

This shinca was medium-sized, about the same diameter as his thigh, though it was as unimaginably tall as any other—the ends of it were lost far below and above. He put his hand on it first. The surface felt like glass, not so hot he had to pull his hand away, but hot enough his palm started to sweat and slip. He turned his back to it, and nodded.

“Perfect,” said Melín. “That’s your safe spot, so don’t move from it unless I tell you to. No matter what happens.”

“All right.”

“Imbati Dexelin, your job is to stand in front of Adon and keep him from being hit by projectiles or physical attacks.”

Dexelin didn’t say a word, but moved immediately to the spot she indicated.

“Grobal Lorman, sir, if you’ll be participating in Grobal Adon’s protection, I’ll ask you and Imbati Oidi to walk side by side behind him, when we’re moving from one shinca to the next.”

Melín herself, it turned out, was the scout. She ranged ahead into the garden, checking behind shrubs and borders and scanning along the gravel paths before returning.

“Our next destination is at the border of the City Garden.”

They walked fast, Melín adjusting her position in response to dangers he couldn’t detect. The new shinca was as narrow as his arm, and wasn’t even the only shinca in this section of the gardens, but one of the others was growing through a bush, and another would have forced him to stand in the water of a fountain. Adon let warmth tingle along his spine, and waited for her to identify their next destination. It felt like a strange game of table-tag. Run run run run safe!

“Our next destination is over there, at the edge of the path.”

“Our next destination is there, beside the grounds gate.”

“Our next destination is just around that corner, in the wall on your left.”

In the public streets, it was hard to ignore how weird this must look to everyone walking by. Hop. Hop. Hop. Once, beyond Dexelin’s elbow, Adon spied a Melumalai boy blinking up at the glowing trunk above their heads, as if he’d only just realized there was a shinca there at all.

And now Melín returned.

“Our destination is around that corner to the right, in the middle of the circumference. I’ll block traffic.”

This one was awkward, because the hum of skimmers was all around them, and sometimes Dexelin slowed so abruptly Adon almost bumped into him, and then speeded up and forced him to jump forward off a back heel to catch up. By the time they reached the center of the street, Adon was panting with nerves.

This was seriously the weirdest possible way to hop around Pelismara. So far, they were safe—if for no other reason than because attackers were confused by their choices.

“Our destination is right there at the gutter. Ready, and—WATCH IT!”

Dexelin spun, grabbed Adon by the arms, and flung him into the street. Adon stumbled, nearly fell, but kept his feet under him and flung his arms around the glowing white trunk that emerged from the gutter. The hot glassy surface pressed against his cheek. Safe . . . ?

A crash behind him, splintering, clattering.

He looked back. A skimmer had smashed into the shinca tree, right where he’d been standing. Broken composite and glass were scattered all over the road; a few skimmer parts bounced, rolled, and rattled to a stop. The front of the skimmer was utterly wrecked; the tree showed no ill effects at all. Arbiter Lorman stood in the lee of the trunk, dazed but seemingly undamaged, with his Oidi beside him. The skimmer driver was slumped over the handlebars of his vehicle, and Dexelin . . . where was Dexelin?

Adon held his breath for several seconds, but then Dexelin’s head appeared on the other side of the crash.

Arissen Melín came around the twisted skimmer, pointed Dexelin at Adon, and then went back. She hauled the driver from his seat, nearly disappearing under him until she laid him out, face-up, in the unnaturally clear, silver-white shinca light.

“Gnash you,” she said. She tied his hands and feet together and left him there.

They had to get back into formation, but Adon couldn’t take his eyes off the assassin. He shivered. When everyone arrived near him, he looked up. Lorman’s mustache had come untwirled, and Dexelin had blood on his face.

“How far is it?” Adon asked. “We have to—”

There was a glint of light, and a soft popping sound. Melín whirled around and zapped a shot across the street. A high-pitched scream echoed off the cavern roof, and Melín winced.

Adon gasped, “Mercy!”

“We’re here,” said Melín. She pointed to an entrance eight feet away, just on the other side of the sidewalk. “The sooner we get in, the better off we’ll all be.”

The metal door opened as they hurried toward it. An Imbati marked with the Household’s crescent cross greeted them inside, and shut the door behind them. Adon shook out his hands, and smoothed out invisible wrinkles in his green velvet coat.

“Your room is this way, sirs.” The Imbati escorted them quite calmly into the club. The hallway smelled like food. When their escort stopped by the door of a private room, Adon realized Nekantor would already be in there, and stopped dead.

“Young Adon, it’s all right,” said Lorman. “You’re here, and we’re safe.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Your brother is expecting us.”

Well, exactly. “Arbiter, you can tell him we’ve arrived,” Adon said. “I need a minute.” Lorman took a breath, but he cut him off. “Just—tell him. I’ll be right in.” When Lorman had gone and the door had shut, he whispered, “Dexelin?”

“Adon, sir?”

“Are you all right? You’re bleeding.”

“A piece of glass hit me, sir. It’s minor.”

Adon waved one of the Imbati servers nearer. “Can you help him, please?” She nodded and approached Dexelin with a towel and water. That felt a little better. “Melín?”

“Sir?”

“Talk to me, please. I thought shinca were supposed to protect me.”

“From weapons fire, sir. You were shot at only once, just before we came into the club.”

“I was? I only heard your shot.”

“I disabled the assassin, sir, but she shot first. That was the popping sound we heard. Imbati Dexelin was to protect you from physical threats, and he did.”

“Did he ever.” And behind this door was not a physical threat—or shouldn’t be.

“Yes, sir, he did well,” Melín agreed. “I’m happy to answer any questions you have.”

“Thank you.” He nodded to Dexelin, who—thank Heile—had cleaned his face and no longer appeared to be actively bleeding. The servant opened the door, and Adon stepped in.

Everyone inside the room turned and stared. Worst was the old man with bulging eyes who had asked rude questions at the Ball. Of course, after a second or two Adon realized he was staring back, coughed, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Good afternoon, young Adon,” said a younger Eighth Family man with dark brown hair. “We’re glad to see you in good health.”

“Thank you.” The automatic response, though his queasy stomach reminded him that this time, it wasn’t normal or expected. There was still glass all over the road outside, and an assassin tied in a knot. He looked to the walls where the manservants stood, each face careful, calm, with a beautiful tattoo; it helped a little. But Nekantor had two Cohort guards behind him. It would only take one of them to kill everyone in the room. “How may I help you today?”

“Please, join us,” said one of the Eighth Family men.

Adon sat down in a chair that his Dexelin pulled out for him. There was a plate of food in front of it; the thought of food made him ill. “Thank you.” Caredes was still staring at him; he tried not to squirm.

“I remember your father,” said Caredes. “Your father was a great man.”

“Oh.” Adon swallowed, glancing at Lorman and back. “Uh, thank you.”

“He’s also dead.”

Name of Elinda. Hopefully, he’d managed to hold his face still.

“Let’s get to the point,” said Nekantor, who was also totally ignoring his food. “You said at the Ball you would be interested in an alliance.”

Caredes snorted, playing with his fork. He appeared to have started eating before Adon walked in. “I thought at the time you might be bringing me Pyaras. Healthy! Robust! Not a child too young for betrothal. What can you offer us in return for our vote?”

“You need new blood,” said Nekantor. “Don’t deny it.” One of the Cohort guards behind him handed him a portrait; he placed it on the table. It was a painting of a young Lady with white skin, smiling, with sapphires in her bright orange curls.

“Wait,” Adon said. “That’s Lady Pelli. Lady Selemei’s daughter.”

“You’re correct,” said Lorman. “Nineteen years old. So, she would make an excellent addition to the Eighth Family.”

Adon tried not to squirm. No one had explained this—maybe because he’d been avoiding it, and hadn’t asked? But had they even discussed this with Lady Pelli? Or Lady Selemei? They must have, mustn’t they? How else would Nekantor have gotten the portrait? The thought made his insides twist.

Caredes didn’t move, but the younger Eighth Family man took up the portrait, studying it closely. He gave a nudge to another man beside him, who joined him looking at it. Adon didn’t like the looks on their faces.

“Sure, we’ll take her,” the second man said. He sounded like a Melumalai.

“Excellent,” said Nekantor. “Lorman, draw it up. Caredes, the deal will be final when your final vote is cast, not before.”

“I’m not stupid, Nekantor.” Caredes waved his hand, and his manservant removed his half-empty plate. “Also, you should know something. There’s no news.”

Adon glanced at his brother. He hated the idea of asking for Nekantor’s instruction, but it felt awful to know so little. Everything around him felt wrong. “No news? What does that mean?”

Nekantor waved off the question, his attention still locked on Caredes. “Not since we arrived?”

“Not since the Round of Twelve.” Caredes shifted his stare to Adon, pronouncing doom. “None. At all.”

Adon swallowed, and nodded. He looked at Lorman. Would someone please explain it?

“So, it’s unusual, is what Caredes is saying,” said Arbiter Lorman. “Usually, the day after the Round of Twelve is full of news about assassination attempts.”

“No,” Nekantor snapped. “It’s not unusual; it never happens. It’s wrong.”

The old man smirked. “You have the Eighth Family’s vote, Adon—if you survive to get it. May Sirin stand by you, for luck.”

“That’s enough,” Nekantor said. He shoved back from the table. “We’re leaving.” He grabbed Adon’s arm and dragged him out into the hall.

“Let go of me!”

“It’s all wrong, don’t you understand?” Nekantor leaned into his face, panting. “No news means the other Families aren’t trying to kill each other. They’re only trying to kill you.”

He gulped. “Heile have mercy.”

“There were supposed to be attempts on everyone, not just on you. This is a different game than I thought.” Nekantor released him and paced off down the hall so fast it looked like he was planning to slam into the wall at the end of it, but then he snapped back around and returned. His hands opened and closed. “If we’re going to get you to the center of the game, I need to find the new pattern.”

“But I got here safely,” Adon said. “Imbati Dexelin and Arissen Melín kept me safe.”

“Everyone cheats,” Nekantor said, as if he hadn’t heard. He wheeled and paced away again. “If this is an alliance between our enemies, it’s temporary; it won’t last. They’ll want me to take the interviews seriously. I’ll look like I’m taking them seriously.” He turned and paced back. “I’ll have to speak to Amyel of the Ninth Family, and to Secretary Boros of the Second Family, and make sure of them. There must be a way to find the pattern. To control the pattern. No more mistakes.”

His intensity was frightening. Adon hugged himself. “I need to go home, Nekantor. I want to be somewhere safe.”

Nekantor stopped and whipped a pointing finger at Arissen Melín. “Do it, Arissen. You got him here. Get him home. Don’t fail me. No more mistakes.”

She saluted. “Yes, your Eminence.” She held the salute while Nekantor paced past them. His guards joined him, and they vanished into the front lobby. Then she said, “Come, Dexelin. And Oidi, with your permission, Arbiter Lorman, sir.”

Adon waited several seconds before walking out to the front. It was safe here, in this windowless club. At least, now that Nekantor had left. But as many times as his mind insisted, his body hadn’t had time to agree, and now they had to go out again. Just the five of them.

“I wish Pyaras were here,” he said. “And Jarel.”

“Me, too, sir,” said Melín. “I’d even appreciate Veriga.”

“Veriga would be great,” Adon sighed. “Police support would be great.”

“So he is police, then. That’s good, at least.”

Adon wrinkled his nose at her. “Of course Veriga’s police. You didn’t know?”

She looked at him, and her mouth pulled sideways. “I figured. He acts like it. But I wasn’t sure . . . some people have lied to me.”

It clicked together, suddenly. “Pyaras lied to you. That’s why you’re so mad.”

She looked away fast. “We should go.”

“Wait,” Adon said. “You don’t know how Pyaras met Veriga. Do you.”

“So, so. Young Adon,” said Arbiter Lorman. “Delaying won’t help. So we’re going to have to do this one way or another.”

“Veriga was in the Eminence’s Cohort,” Adon persisted. “He got assigned to bodyguard Nekantor in the last Heir Selection.”

Melín had started toward the front door, but now she stopped and turned around with horror on her face. “Oh, gods help him.”

“That’s right. Veriga got poisoned, right here, at this same club. And Pyaras sat by his bed until he got better, and after that, they were friends. Veriga joined the police later.”

She seemed to think about that. “Thank you, sir. I believe we should go.”

“Oh, and you should know. Pyaras came to me this morning, about ready to tear his hair out, begging me not to let you eat for me.”

She stared at him.

“But if we’re going to have to go, what do we do about the crashed skimmer?”

Melín shook herself. “I’ll check ahead.” She disappeared out the front door, and returned a few seconds later with a short nod. “Good news. They took the main part of it away, and the first thing you have to do is just get across the sidewalk to the corner of the club. Arbiter Lorman, sir, are you ready? Adon, sir?”

Adon’s throat closed up and his chest tightened, but he nodded. Sirin give me luck. Eyn help me get home. He kept close behind Melín, one step, two, three, four, until they reached the shinca in the gutter. He slid into position, leaning into its heat while Melín ranged farther ahead. The circumference had been closed to traffic in the few minutes they’d been inside. The assassin with his crashed skimmer was gone, though the street was still full of debris. At least ten red-uniformed police moved about here and there, which—probably made them safer?

Melín returned. “Shinca in the middle of the street. Go.”

He gulped a breath and followed her as quickly as he could. Broken composite crunched under his shoes.

“And the next one. Go.”

“Go.”

“Go.”

One of the gaps was longer than the others, and he found himself gasping at the end of it.

“Adon, sir, this next gap is also a long one,” Melín said, brusquely but kindly. “Please remember to breathe while you walk.”

He blushed and nodded. “Sorry.”

“Around the corner to the left, middle of the sidewalk. Go.”

He walked fast, forcing himself to breathe, trying not to look for dangers, just watch Melín’s black boots.

“Varin’s teeth!” she swore suddenly. “Run!”

She loosed a shot—zzap!—and broke into a run ahead of him, weapon in her hand. He tried to keep up and follow. Around the corner to the left she’d said, and there was the corner, coming, here now—turn left—and there was the shinca, the white glow of safety! He flung himself at it.

A flash—sudden heat at the edge of his right ear, and that weird sound, pop! He half-fell into the shinca’s smooth surface. Dexelin arrived two heartbeats later, sliding into place in front of him. Adon straightened, with the shinca warm against his back.

Where had Melín gone?

Another bright flash, another pop. And then pop—pop—pop! Were those weapons shots? The flashes hurt his eyes; he closed them for a second—

It got ten times worse.

Pops and crackles assaulted his ears. The surface against his back grew hotter. When he opened his eyes again, the air itself was boiling—street, buildings, flashes of fire, distorted and near-unrecognizable. The silver-white light from behind him flickered and brightened. Then the screaming started.

Oh, holy Eyn . . .

The shinca got hotter—hotter. Was this what was supposed to happen? It hurt! Melín had said the tree wouldn’t burn him, but he couldn’t bear it any more. How far could he move away and stay safe? He leaned forward, crouched down where the tree met the sidewalk, and wrapped both arms around his head.

In the tiny space between his knees, it was only as hot as his own body, but he couldn’t shut out the sounds. The screaming got worse, coming from more directions. Slowly, the weird popping and crackling diminished, and then finally it stopped.

Adon sneaked a look up. The air shimmered, slowly returning to normal, but it smelled of smoke. The shinca was still too hot, too bright. And there was still screaming.

“D-Dexelin?” he quavered. “Are you all right?”

“Here, sir.” Right beside him, also crouched low.

“What was that? Did you see what happened?”

“Sir, assassins shot at us. We took . . . a lot of shots. Maybe as many as eighty. But Arissen Melín has stopped them, and we should get you home. Just a few more hops.”

“I don’t think—” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “I don’t think I want anyone to know—what just happened.”

Dexelin bowed his head. “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”

Adon stood up. His legs shook. Melín came back, jogging across the radius with guilty discomfort on her face, but seemingly uninjured. Arbiter Lorman and his Oidi appeared to have been caught behind the corner, and have missed most of it. Lorman’s face was aghast.

“Elinda’s blessing,” Lorman said, taking up Adon’s hand and patting it incredulously. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“A few more hops,” Adon said. “We’re almost there. Melín?”

“Ready when you are, sir,” the Arissen said. “We’ll keep to the plan, but with those five deactivated, we shouldn’t face such a barrage again.”

Adon swallowed hard. “I hope you’re right.”