CHAPTER TWO
Tested
The Speaker’s death last night, like the tumble of a stone from the roof of some forsaken cavern, had the entire Imbati Service Academy holding its breath, listening for worse.
Not the best conditions for an employment interview.
Imbati Aloran sat in his dormitory bunk and tried to focus on the papers he’d prepared, but intermittent whispering in the main aisle wrecked his concentration. Clumps of students had gathered, murmuring about Kinders fever. Some were fully dressed in maroon Academy uniforms; others wore nightgowns; a few, diverted from the showers, were wrapped only in bath towels. Most of the talk centered on how lucky they were to have been born outside the inbred confines of the nobility.
This was a disaster indeed, if it could make self-respecting servants gossip like nobles.
Aloran pushed his hair behind his ears and tried again to focus, but a voice spoke, tuned to private pitch.
“Aloran, may I join you?”
Kiit, he would happily admit. He nodded.
She ducked gracefully under the top bunk beside him. Ready for class, with her long braids still damp. “Forgive me if I’m interrupting,” she said. “I thought perhaps you looked—nervous.”
Aloran shrugged. “I have my first interview today.”
Kiit smiled. “I knew one of them would ask you in! You’ll do wonderfully.” Her eyes grew cautious. “Were you aware that you’re still face-naked?”
Aloran hissed in a breath. Now he remembered his interrupted routine. To appear at an interview unmarked would be to fail before he began. He went to the mirror he shared with his bunkmate and painted the small black circle between his eyebrows. Then he combed his dark hair into its ponytail which, thanks to Kiit’s precise trimming, fell just outside his collar. He shut both makeup brush and comb back into his box of implements.
“Much better,” Kiit said, when he turned around. Her eyes moved over him enticingly. “You sure look different in black.”
Aloran flushed. The black silk suit was new, and it felt different. Freer, smoother, more professional. Older, too, as though he deserved a real manservant’s lily crest Mark, not just a circle of paint. Scary how much he liked it.
“May I ask you a question?” Kiit said.
“Not now, please. I should study.”
Kiit’s brown eyes lit, and her mouth curved—that look of mischievous intimacy that meant she’d ask him even without permission. “Have you had any new employment inquiries? Which one is this?”
“That was two questions, sweet.”
“I love you.”
He could only smile when she said that. “I love you, too. Lady Tamelera of the First Family; and no.”
“First Family?” Kiit exclaimed. “What an opportunity! You’d have your entire Academy debt paid off in less than a year. You’d—” She frowned. “Lady Tamelera. She’s the Lady Alixi. You’d have to move to Selimna?” Abruptly, she appeared to realize she’d asked another question, blushed, and said, “I hear it’s beautiful there. The daylights are gold. Though the city-caverns are colder.”
Aloran looked down and left: the gaze-gesture code for apology. “I probably won’t get the position,” he said. But it would be amazing if he did. Four current family members; three castemates in the Selimnar Household, and four here in Pelismara. A very generous salary offer and incredible prestige. . . Unfortunately, the First Family had included no portrait of Lady Tamelera, which made it difficult to imagine himself in her service. “More important than the money,” he said, “I want to find the right person.”
“Imbati, love where you serve,” Kiit quoted. “You’re such an idealist—if a nervous one.”
“I’d be less nervous if everybody weren’t chatting.”
He wasn’t the only one to object. A lilting provincial accent had risen above the general murmurs—the voice of Min, a younger student who’d traveled from the Safe Harbor sand caverns to enter the Gentleman’s training at the Academy.
“Come, fellows, talk won’t tame the waves,” Min said. “It’s consequences we must think of. Political alliances’ll shift now. And, should the fever spread, there may be fewer service positions.”
Aloran frowned. Min had always seemed earnest and rather affectionate. Coldness wasn’t like him.
“Gentleman’s servant,” Kiit remarked.
He nodded. That was certainly the Gentleman’s training talking. Gentlemen’s servants were experts in politics but knew far less about health—a serious problem in the current situation. He glanced at Kiit, set his papers aside, and went over to the group.
“Allow me to explain something,” he said.
Maybe it was the black suit, but all eyes turned to him. Best would be to teach them the lesson of ten, required memorization for members of the Lady’s training like him and Kiit.
“Say this year brings a new variant of Kinders, inoculants fail to anticipate it, and ten Imbati contract the fever,” he said. “Of those, only one will face the most severe symptoms—anaphylaxis, sensory loss, or death. Two will miss one week of work or instruction and require a doctor’s care for complications. Six will not need a doctor, and one will be entirely asymptomatic.”
“You’re generous with information,” said one of the twelve-year-olds.
“That’s not all of it.” The second half always chilled him to the core. He took a deep breath. “If the one Imbati with no symptoms comes into physical contact with any Grobal, and ten of them subsequently contract the fever, all will die without a doctor’s care. Seven will experience rapid-onset anaphylaxis and require immediate intervention to prevent death. Even if these survive, four will die of fever, and one will survive with sensory loss.” He looked at each member of the chastened group. “You might be the one to unleash death on those whom we are sworn to protect. That shame would be on the Academy forever.”
Min gaze-gestured gratitude. “May I ask you a question, Aloran?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t past inoculants still give them some protection?”
“The Grobal inoculation rate is too low, in part because they have an abnormally high allergy rate,” he said. “We are their wall of safety, and therefore we must be vigilant. I’m even potentially a risk to the Lady who will interview me today.”
That got to the core of it. No wonder he was nervous. Once the group dispersed, Aloran returned to his bunk, counting breaths to steady himself. He must under no circumstances touch the Lady . . .
“You were right to tell them,” said Kiit.
She’d been right, too. “Kiit,” he said, “I can’t believe Lady Tamelera would agree to see me while the source of the fever remains unidentified.”
Kiit nodded sympathy. She offered her hand palm-upward, inviting him to touch.
That sped his heart for a different reason. “Afterward,” he promised. “I’ll come and find you.”
Imbati Ziara the Health Master, who advised him, had requested that he present himself at her office before his interview, so Aloran left the dormitory four minutes early. Centuries of foot traffic had worn concave paths into the limestone here; he walked past three ceramic catchpools which gathered water from drip-chains heavy with calcite, their origin points invisible on the cavern roof. Aloran crossed to the main Academy building and entered between columns whose capitals were carved with golden flames. Once inside the arched hallway, he went to the third bronze door and knocked.
A castemate opened the door. It wasn’t Master Ziara. This new woman was a full head shorter, with white hair and a faded lily crest tattoo that put her at about seventy. Nothing was faded about her expression, however, which suggested the strength of an antique weapon: well-oiled, experienced, and sharp.
“Master Ziara has been called away to duty,” she said. “I am Tamelera’s Eyli, of the Household of the First Family.”
Lady Tamelera’s body servant? Sirin help him, was the Lady herself in the Health Master’s office? He swallowed a gasp and bowed. “Tamelera’s Eyli, sir,” he said respectfully. “I am Aloran, at your service.”
“My Lady has not accompanied me today,” the senior servant said. “I am to interview you in the Hands classroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thank the gods—there could be no danger of accidental infection. But how strange that the family would ask a servant to interview her own replacement . . .
Tamelera’s Eyli walked ahead of him, quickly, with an unusually delicate gait. She pushed through the bronze door of the Hands classroom and faced him at the center of the mats, turning her back to the long metal shelves of bowls, balls, papers, and other practice instruments.
“All right, young one,” she said. “What’s wrong with me?”
That was anger. His heart lurched into his throat. Had he done something wrong? He fell into a deep bow. “I don’t mean to offend you, sir.”
“It would be easier if I could afford manners, Aloran,” Eyli said. “This is a matter of great importance to my Mistress, and since she will be unable to evaluate you herself, I must be harsh. I will ask questions and give orders without redress.”
“I am yours, sir.”
“My question, Aloran. Evaluate me.”
Aloran took a deep breath. He walked around her, studying her stance, her face and breath, the subtle contours of muscle and bone against her black silk garments. “You have at least one compressed vertebra in your upper back,” he said. “Perhaps an old injury; it does not hamper you significantly. You have severe arthritis in your knees, but your hands are unaffected. You have no obvious vision or hearing problems, but your balance is slightly impaired.”
“Then it would be getting time I retired,” she muttered. “Give me evidence for your assessments.”
He gulped. “Your posture, sir. And the way you walked as we came here.”
Eyli attacked with another question. “Why do you want to take my position with Lady Tamelera?”
So she was being forced out. Despite her aggression, though, her voice softened when she said her Lady’s name. That was more intriguing than anything he’d seen in his papers.
“I wish to work for someone I can serve faithfully,” Aloran answered. “Someone who understands the bond that can grow between a mistress and her servant. I won’t presume to ask what it is about your Lady that moves you, but if she were gracious as well as noble, then I would vow service to her without reservation.”
Eyli stared at him wordlessly. Would she send him away?
Without warning, she jabbed a hand at his stomach.
Plis’ bones! Aloran managed to deflect it, but then she tried to hook him with a foot, and suddenly they were fighting. Or, she was fighting. He was mostly defending—Eyli was certainly capable of hurting him, but he didn’t dare strike back. She’d adapted the moves cleverly to compensate for her knees. Dodge, leap, deflect, deflect . . . Eyli’s gaze left him for a second, as if she’d glimpsed someone at the door. He chose not to attack her for it.
Silk swished behind him.
Aloran whirled and met Master Ziara’s foot coming high; he got one hand to it and spun away. He dodged Eyli’s next jab, and deflected a quick pair of blows that Master Ziara attempted to land on his neck and shoulder. Panting, he kept his feet and arms moving while they both assaulted him. What did they want him to do? Surrender? Surely not—but would they really prefer him to attack? Mind whirling, he began to retreat across the mats.
Master Ziara dropped her fighting stance and reached one hand toward Eyli. A signal. The senior servant drew herself up as stiffly as an iron bar and fell sideways.
Gods. . . !
He lunged forward. Found contact and pulled Eyli in, twisting so he hit the floor first. She landed full on top of him.
No, what had he done? She wasn’t his mistress, she was a castemate. Such an offense to her person!
“Please forgive me, sir,” he panted, setting her on her feet and retreating fast. He began a breathing exercise to calm himself from the exertion; it didn’t help with the embarrassment.
“No broken bones,” Eyli remarked. “Ziara, Aloran gave only scant evidence for his physical assessment.”
Master Ziara inclined her head. “Pardon me, sir, if I guess that his assessment was nonetheless correct.”
Eyli let slip a brief gaze-gesture of assent. “You have further business?”
“New public information,” said Master Ziara. “Two decrees from His Eminence Indal, issued five minutes ago; disseminate to all castemates.”
“Proceed.”
Master Ziara took reciting stance, holding one hand flat at the small of her back, and turning her eyes upward.
Aloran thought quickly. This was a lucky interruption. If he’d assessed Eyli’s health correctly, then maybe he was also right about her love for her Mistress. Something was hidden behind Eyli’s aggression and unwillingness to speak. Could she be under oath of silence? But if she were, how could he learn more about Lady Tamelera?
“First,” Master Ziara intoned, “every person present at the concert panic must be subject to health checks and interviews. Second, because the orchestra was present, the Kartunnen caste has become suspect as the fever source, and therefore no Grobal shall have contact with any Kartunnen until the source of the Kinders fever has been identified.” She dropped her stance. “Unfortunately, that includes doctors.”
Aloran managed not to stare. Health checks, but no contact with doctors? That took the Grobal ignorance and fear of science to an entirely new level.
“And,” Master Ziara added, “from the Academy Headmaster, two items. First, we have a team working to determine which variant of the fever claimed Orn’s life; second, we request volunteers of the Lady’s training to conduct health checks on the concert attendees. Answers to be delivered to the Headmaster’s office at your earliest convenience.”
Eyli frowned. “Ziara, my young Master Tagaret will have been there, but I’m not permitted to contact him until tonight. If you would be so kind?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
Aloran sent his own gaze-gesture of gratitude to Master Ziara as she left the room. Thanks to her, Eyli had just suggested a perfect way to learn more. “Sir,” he said. “May I make a request?”
The senior servant returned her attention to him. “Yes?”
“With your permission, may I observe Lady Tamelera’s sons?”
Eyli studied him for a long moment. “Good idea,” she said. “Grobal Tagaret and Nekantor are currently in role-play session at the Grobal School. Observe them; and when you have satisfied yourself, report back to me.”
Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. Role-play was one trial he’d thought he’d finally left behind. The path toward the Grobal School brought a familiar dread, and once the wardens had let him out through the Academy’s front gate, Aloran was grateful for the excuse to run.
At this hour, the Plaza of Varin bustled with a whirl of tourists, mostly Lowers unaware of the fever scare. Merchants wore necklaces of silver and chrysolite; miners wore heavy black belts and stained clothes; artisans had painted lips and wore gray coats. Here and there a few Highers of the Arissen officer caste stood out in rust-red uniforms. In comparison, the Imbati bureaucrats who crossed between the columns of the Courts on the plaza’s east side or the Old Forum in the south, or who whispered past the massive steel cylinder of the Alixi’s Elevator at the southeast corner, provided a welcome touch of sanity.
On the north side, at the Residence gate, a pair of Arissen in the orange uniforms of the Eminence’s Cohort passed Aloran in. He crossed the rock gardens and circled behind the Residence’s west wing to the classical stone building that housed the Grobal School.
No more running.
He entered through the glass doors. It was unsettling to pass by the familiar door of the ladies’ play hall and approach the gentlemen’s hall instead—ladies he knew firsthand, boys only by horrifying report. May the Twins stand by him.
He slipped inside. This room was the mirror image of its neighbor: high smooth stone vaults, walls decorated with paintings and embroidered hangings, a floor carpeted in deep Grobal green. But where young ladies gathered at brass tables near the walls, giggling over notes or pets and laying verbal traps for any Imbati who dared approach, the boys roved the room in gangs. These gangs surrounded Academy students or sent individual boys out to accost Imbati and bring them back.
Aloran struggled against an urge to retreat. A voice spoke beside him, and he nearly jumped.
“Aloran? May I help you?”
It was Min, looking alarmed to see him.
Aloran bowed. “Employment interview,” he said. “I’ve been asked to observe the sons of a prospective Mistress, Grobal Tagaret and Nekantor of the First Family.”
Min gaze-gestured an offer of information. “Fair trade, for earlier,” he said. “Gang behavior predicts political success. Grobal Tagaret captains a mixed-family gang of four. He’s a leader but not a crowd-dominator, and reaches across boundaries. Grobal Nekantor plays a dangerous first mate to the crowd-dominator of his gang, but leads the group in intellect. Both promise to float servants high, as expected with their parentage.”
“Thank you,” Aloran said.
A round-faced boy started coming toward them, carrying a blue-feathered kanguan on his shoulder.
“You’ll excuse me,” said Min. “Find Grobal Tagaret at the back, sitting under the Great Grobal Fyn.” With a quick two steps away, he intercepted the boy with the kanguan. When he spoke again, all emotion had vanished from his voice. “Min, at your service, sir.”
“Come, Imbati,” said the Grobal boy. “You’ll serve us.”
Aloran could only watch, while an ache grew in the back of his throat. The boy’s gang surrounded Min, poking him from all directions, ordering him to the floor and back up again, then forcing him to hop over a tripping foot. Min’s professionalism was impressive—not only had he selflessly put himself at risk to redirect the boys’ attention, but he stayed calm through the entire thing.
Aloran wasn’t about to waste good information. He moved cautiously toward the back wall. There, the embroidered image of a young, prominent-nosed Grobal Fyn—the father of modern Varin—towered over his male descendants. Directly below the wall hanging, four boys lounged at a brass table, only one of them actually in a chair: a slim, long-boned boy with a classic Grobal nose and hair the reddish-tan color of sandstone. That had to be Tagaret. His posture was earnest, and a smile played on his lips. Perhaps his mother was like him . . .
Aloran dared a few steps closer.
“I found out there’s going to be another concert,” Grobal Tagaret said. “Tonight. On the fourth level, concert hall at Tesrel Circumference and Yinnari Radius.”
“You’re proposing we go to a Lower’s venue?” asked a boy with long hair, leaning against the table.
A dark-haired boy crossed his arms. “With the fever out there?”
“The fever’s not out there,” Grobal Tagaret said. “Speaker Orn never went to a Melumalai concert hall.”
“Then why should we?” the long-haired boy asked.
“Just to get away with it?” suggested the dark-haired boy. “For the reputation?”
“But nobody of any importance will be there.”
Grobal Tagaret’s cheeks flushed. “It’s for the music, Gowan. And I can think of one person who might go.”
A blond boy standing behind Tagaret laid one hand on his shoulder. “Copper and emeralds? Surely her parents would never allow her to defy the Kartunnen ban.”
“I have to see her again, Reyn. If there’s any chance at all—”
The dark-haired boy laughed. “Make sure to leave a few ladies for the rest of us.”
Grobal Tagaret snorted.
“Hey,” said Grobal Reyn suddenly. “Look at that Imbati watching us.”
Discovered. Aloran’s heart pounded, but he swallowed all expression off his face and humbled his head. Now he’d learn whether these boys were like the others.
Grobal Tagaret of the First Family stood up from his chair and approached. He was surprisingly tall—six feet at sixteen, far taller than any of the other three—but he wore it without apparent self-consciousness. “Imbati,” he said, “you must be a visitor. What’s your name?”
“Aloran, sir.”
“I find it interesting, Aloran, that you come wearing black and don’t offer yourself to our service.”
Aloran gulped. “My apologies, sir.”
“Wait, I know him,” said Grobal Reyn, walking toward them. “My sister has seen an Imbati Aloran. You should hear her go on: ‘Oh, his muscles! He could pick me up, just like a doll!’”
Grobal Tagaret flicked a glance at him. “That’s interesting. Thanks, Reyn.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulder, and Grobal Reyn leaned into his hand. Perhaps more than friendship was at stake between those two. “Sometimes I wish I could be Lady’s,” Grobal Tagaret said. “At least I could get close to the ladies.”
The other boys laughed.
Aloran hid a smile in his heart. Self-deprecating humor, and generous indulgence of a stranger Imbati’s attention—both very hopeful hints of his mother’s temperament. “Grobal Tagaret, sir,” he said, “if you will permit me to ask?”
“Yes?”
“Is your brother with you?”
The Grobal boy grimaced. “Aloran, Nekantor is never with me.”
Oh, dear . . . Aloran bowed low. “I have offended, sir. I beg your forgiveness.”
But Grobal Tagaret didn’t chastise him. “Aloran, you don’t want to know Nekantor,” he said. “Most people don’t want to know him, but Imbati particularly. He’s over near the door, if you’re bent on finding him. Dark jacket, looks a lot like me. In Benél’s crowd—but don’t get too close.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
Aloran took two steps backward before straightening from his bow. That had gone so well! He headed back toward the entry door with more confidence, weaving between the gangs. Despite the warning, he couldn’t leave until he’d found Grobal Nekantor. Family resemblance might show in both sons.
There.
The boy stood in a gang of almost ten who had waylaid Anin, one of his bunk neighbors. Grobal Nekantor’s physical resemblance to Tagaret was striking: a few inches taller, and he and his brother could have passed for twins. But there the resemblance ended. Even from afar, this boy felt—wrong. The other members of his gang were reckless and excited, but even standing still, Nekantor possessed more frantic intensity than any of them. An anxiety disorder certainly; maybe also something more. His eyes moved too fast, sharp and dangerous. ‘Don’t get too close’ seemed like very good advice.
Anin, pale-faced, tried to maintain composure inside the predator circle while Grobal Nekantor whispered into the leader’s ear. The leader pulled a kuarjos piece from his pocket and threw it at her. She tried to catch it, missed, and Nekantor slapped her across the face.
Aloran gasped.
The gang laughed as Anin tried to swallow her pain—and it got worse. The dangerous eyes leapt over to him. Though they were the same brown as Grobal Tagaret’s eyes, they still felt black. Aloran froze under them.
Grobal Nekantor left his group and stalked up, scowling. “You’re different, Imbati,” he said. “I don’t know your name.”
Aloran tried to speak calmly through a clamped throat. “I am Aloran, sir.”
“Come with me, Aloran. You’ll serve us.”
Chills ran down his back, but he bowed. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I am unable to serve you. I am of the Lady’s training, and I’m here doing research.”
“Research—ha! You’re not doing research. You’re just unwilling.”
There was no appropriate reply.
Grobal Nekantor snorted. “Come watch Anin. Watch how a real servant behaves, and then you’ll have your chance.”
Mai help him, he couldn’t let Anin suffer it again. He blurted, “I can offer to braid your hair, sir.”
That gave the boy pause, but only for a second. “My hair?” he demanded. “My hair—Benél!”
That hadn’t been the best idea. The gang diffused and recoalesced around him. At least Anin was able to slip away.
The lead boy’s eyes were blue, and blunt as fists. “What, Nek?”
“This Imbati said he could braid my hair. How dare he try to play a game with me! How dare he speak to me as if I were a girl!”
“Are you trying to play a game with your superiors?” the leader demanded. “Speak, Imbati.”
Aloran bowed again, as humbly as he could. “Your pardon, sir. I am of the Lady’s training. I am here for research, but I am unable to meet a gentleman’s needs.”
Grobal Nekantor narrowed his eyes.
The leader grabbed Nekantor by the back of the neck and gave him a little shake. “Come on, Nek, it’s a waste of our time if he’s for ladies anyway. He probably has a girl’s brains.” The other boys laughed, and the gang’s attention shifted. Aloran moved away fast, but he could still feel Grobal Nekantor’s gaze burning his back as he left the hall.
Once out of the School, he ran through the grounds and back to the Plaza of Varin. The crowds had diminished, opening a gap at the center of the plaza where the glowing white trunk of a shinca tree emerged rootless from the rock and warmed the air all around. Its steady invulnerability soothed his panic. He stared up at the shinca’s bright column, which vanished among stalactites and atmospheric lamps on its way to the surface five levels above.
How could two brothers be so different? What if the Lady was like Nekantor instead? Why had Eyli allowed him to observe these boys if she knew it would just confuse him?
Something was clearly wrong in this house. Only the Lady should have mattered, but she was out of reach, unable to show him whether she was kind or merciless. Were money and prestige reasons enough to pursue this?
But he had to. If word got back to the family that he’d abandoned the interview, their bad word could ruin him.
Aloran forced himself into a breath pattern. Think—the real problem here was lack of information. Eyli divulged so little; chances were good she was under oath of silence. Could she have granted his unusual request purposely, to circumvent her oath? If he appealed to her directly, perhaps she might do it again.
He returned to the Academy, steeling himself for the risk. He entered the Hands classroom with deliberate force, startling Eyli up from the Hands Master’s chair. “Eyli, sir, may I ask you a question?”
She’d opened her mouth to greet him, but now she hesitated. “What sort of question?”
Aloran forced himself to say it. “Are you under oath of silence regarding me?”
Eyli stared up with piercing eyes. “Answer me first. What did you learn at the Grobal School?”
“That this branch of the First Family is full of contradictions,” he said. “That Lady Tamelera is kind, and that she is angry. That she is brave, and that she is anxious. That she loves others, and that she drives others away.”
“Aloran, sit down.”
He obeyed and discovered that Eyli was sitting, too. She didn’t take the Hands Master’s chair, but sank down on the mats instead. Everything about her manner had changed.
“I am under oath,” she said, in a voice full of pain. “But I will tell you what I can. The most important thing is this: our inquiry was not initiated by my Mistress, but by Master Garr, who has just been appointed Speaker of the Cabinet.”
That was disturbing. “Her partner, sir?”
“Garr is callous. He knows nothing of my Lady’s needs, but believes he cares for her well. He likes to surprise her. I do everything in my power to stop him, and yet I fail.” Her voice quivered. “In the matter of my replacement, Master Garr coerced my silence, saying that if I broke the oath he demanded, he would not permit me to participate in selecting the best candidate. He made me return to Pelismara a day early, and lie to my beloved Mistress when she asked why I must leave her alone with him. Even convince her it was no trouble for me.”
“But it is trouble for you,” Aloran said. What emotion her Mistress brought forth in her—it was mortifying, yet strangely stirring. This woman had known the perfect love of mistress and servant. In the face of that, who could remain untouched? “I wish I could know her as you do.”
Eyli gaze-gestured apology. “She often speaks generously with me about her feelings, but I can’t speak to how she will treat someone new. I advise care; she doesn’t demand the oath of silence often, but she expects it as a rule.”
“My heart is as deep as the heavens,” Aloran said. “No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”
Eyli nodded. “If I’ve been rude to you, it’s because the two previous candidates were so precisely what the Master would have wanted. I was trying to protect my Mistress from you, Aloran. But you’ve defeated me. You already know more about her than you think.”
Aloran shook his head. “Sir, I’m sorry. I was merely guessing.”
“As you were with my health assessment?”
“That was different, sir.”
“I don’t think so.” She looked at him gravely. “In order to reach my Mistress, you will first have to pass review with Master Garr. Say anything you need to in order to satisfy him, but beware of his manservant, Sorn. Sorn is very much his master’s man.”
Aloran stared at her. Triumph and confusion whirled inside him. He’d passed. She was asking him to move onto the next step—and the job had just moved to Pelismara. But did he want it? If the sons were opposed to one another, and so were the parents? “Sir,” he said. “I haven’t decided . . .”
“Please,” Eyli said. “When the Master contacts you, please consent to his review. I’ve loved my Mistress since she was born. I don’t know how I could retire if I weren’t sure she was getting the best. This much I can promise: if she accepts you, she will protect you.”