CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Unexpectedly Concerning Lowers

Tagaret woke with a gasp. There had been some dream—Della beckoning, a stalker in the shadows, pain, then darkness—

He’d told Father he wanted the First Family’s candidacy. He hadn’t told him what he’d planned to do with it. But the ‘shortcut’ now seemed twenty times as dangerous as it had last night. Father had said everything would be different now. Gowan and Fernar would be rivals; the Great Families would try to beat him, or failing that, to kill him. No one could be trusted.

Would Fernar’s Family really try to kill him? Would Reyn’s?

Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed. Maybe he should have walked out, refused Della’s dangers so there would be someone left to trust . . . but he had to change things, to help Mother, at least . . .

“Young Master Tagaret?” came a voice. “I believe you’re awake?”

Tagaret sat up. “Serjer? What is it?”

The First Houseman stepped from behind his curtain. “A visitor, young Master. The Master and Mistress are still sleeping, but Reyn of the Ninth Family asks for you. Forgive me—I had to admit him, for safety, and I thought you might wish to see him.”

That woke him up. “Yes—thank you, Serjer.”

Serjer entered, took shirt, underwear, and trousers from his wardrobe and laid them on the bed. “Then I’ll bring him to you in a moment, sir.”

Tagaret jumped into his clothes, fumbling with the buttons. He was tucking in his shirttails when the knock came; he rushed to unlock his door.

Reyn stood there, wearing a relieved smile. He looked fantastic—blond curls perfectly arranged, dressed in his ruby suit with the lace collar as if he were going to a party. “Sorry if I woke you,” he said. “I thought Serjer might send me away.”

“Of course not. Get in here before someone sees you.” Tagaret grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in. “How in Varin’s name did you get permission to come over?”

Reyn raised his eyebrows. He fingered one lapel. “Got Imbati Shara to bring me. Can’t you tell?”

Tagaret laughed. “Yeah, she made you all—” Fancy, he was going to say, but the wry curve of Reyn’s lips caught his eyes, and he lost the word. He bent and kissed him, letting the feeling pull his body to Reyn’s, up against the door.

Reyn made a small ecstatic sound and grabbed him by the back of the head.

Just shut the lock—

He managed it, then staggered backward toward his bed, pulling Reyn with him. Reyn’s hands were already tearing at his buttons, and Tagaret pushed under the ruby silk, found Reyn’s back, then his chest. Chest to chest they fell together and fought out of the rest of their clothes. He knew what was coming, and Reyn pressed against him, waking a crazy thirst that shook him from head to foot.

He heard a knock.

Tagaret froze, panting, arms locked around Reyn as if he might be stolen away.

The knock came again, almost apologetically from the curtained door.

Tagaret gulped air and tried to speak in a controlled voice. “Not now, Serjer.”

The reply was muffled—but it didn’t sound like Serjer. “Apologies . . . an urgent message . . .” A folded paper nudged under the door.

Reyn’s warm body was far more inviting than a walk over to the door of the servants’ Maze. Tagaret pushed Reyn’s hair back and kissed him, but finally sighed. “I’d better check it.”

Reyn put a kiss on his chest. “All right.”

The air felt cold. He kept his feet on the carpet while plucking the paper from the stone threshold. He brought it back to the bed.

“Sirin and Eyn,” Tagaret swore.

Reyn pushed up on his elbows. “What?”

Tagaret couldn’t answer; guilt had stolen his voice. He sat beside Reyn, staring at the paper:

Enwin and Pazeu of the Sixth Family will be at home at two afternoon on Soremor 18th, Herin 1.

“Sixth Family!” Reyn breathed. “They’re expecting you? Today?”

Tagaret suddenly felt very naked. “I don’t know why they want to see me.”

“I know why.”

He did, too: Della. And now that Father was pushing him as a candidate, he’d certainly allow him to go. Tagaret glanced at Reyn, at his slim body and his sober face. “Reyn, I don’t know what to do. You tell me. What should I do?”

Reyn looked away, but shrugged. “I shouldn’t lie to myself. Everyone partners; we’ve always known that. It’s for the good of the Race.”

Was it for the good of the Race that he’d walked with Lady Selemei last night? No, it was for Della. Della, Della—but where did that leave Reyn?

Tagaret took a deep breath. “Sure, everyone partners. I just didn’t expect a chance at it now. I might not get it anyway, you know.”

Reyn was wringing the message between his hands. He looked down in surprise. “Tagaret, there’s another message.”

“Another?” But it was true: now Reyn held two wrinkled papers in his hands. They must have been back to back, somehow. Tagaret took the second. It was on lighter notepaper, in precise handwriting:

Young Master Tagaret—

Garr’s Sorn has taken possession of a key belonging to Lady Tamelera. He keeps it in his room. I regret that, due to my position in the Household, I am unable to restore it to her myself.

The message was unsigned. It sent shivers down his back.

“Sorn has stolen a key from my mother,” he said.

Reyn scowled. “Your father should fire him immediately.”

“Father probably ordered him to steal it.” Outrage surged up in him, and he seized Reyn’s hand. “Reyn, I would never have gotten through Mother moving to Selimna if not for you. I couldn’t live—I mean, I would never do anything to—” He couldn’t finish.

Reyn lifted his hand and kissed his fingers. Then he turned away and started putting on his clothes. “Come on. I bet we can get it back if we take him two on one.”

Even when they were both fully dressed, Tagaret couldn’t help thinking they’d have been better off in armor. He had to hope that Father wasn’t yet awake, so they could get Sorn alone. He pressed his service call button.

A moment later, Serjer stepped in the curtained door. “Yes, young Master?”

“Thank you for your message,” Tagaret said. “We’ll need to talk to Sorn if you want us to get it back.”

Confusion shaded Serjer’s eyes. “I believe what you received was the Sixth Family’s message, sir,” he said. “Sorn is currently in his own room, attending upon your father’s awakening.”

Wait. Had Serjer not been the one to send that message? “Serjer, who sent the second message?”

Serjer looked at him intently. “I couldn’t say, young Master.”

Tagaret glanced at Reyn. He’d noticed it, too: Serjer was oath-bound. Tagaret hated to press him, but there were few things in the Household that the First Houseman didn’t know, and this was important. Maybe if he used a different approach . . . “Serjer, who delivered a paper to my room a moment ago?”

Serjer answered promptly. “Aloran, young Master.”

Aloran—now, that made more sense. But Aloran was of equal rank with Sorn. Why wouldn’t his position in the Household allow him to take the key back? It didn’t matter, really; the request was clear.

“Well, apparently, Sorn has stolen a key from my mother,” Tagaret explained. “He’s been keeping it in his room. Can you help us?”

Serjer’s eyes widened, and his jaw clenched. “Absolutely, young Master,” he said. “I think you would be best served if I were to take you directly to him.”

“Directly?” Reyn exclaimed.

“Are you sure?” asked Tagaret. “You’ll allow us in the Maze?”

“Meet me at the kitchen entrance,” Serjer said, and disappeared behind his curtain.

Tagaret looked at Reyn; Reyn shook his head.

“Well,” Tagaret said, “all right, then.” His mouth felt dry, but he led Reyn out, locking the door behind them.

“We’ll get in trouble,” Reyn murmured.

“If Father finds out.” He would, though, wouldn’t he? Sorn would tell him. Tagaret frowned. “This is for my mother. I won’t be mad if you don’t come with me.”

“I won’t leave you.”

When they arrived in the dining room, Serjer beckoned from the kitchen doors. Tagaret entered on tiptoes. The kitchen wasn’t unfamiliar, but he’d never been permitted in this far. The hall beyond was so narrow that Reyn had to walk behind him with hands on his shoulders.

“Here,” Serjer said, indicating a door on their left.

Tagaret took a breath and blew it out. No hesitation—he must show only confidence. Keeping Reyn on his left, he faced the door and knocked so hard his knuckles stung.

Sorn opened the door irritably, but at the sight of them, dropped a gray curtain of calm over his face.

“Sorn, you’ve taken my mother’s key,” Tagaret said, holding out his hand. “Give it to me at once.”

Sorn said nothing.

“Give it to me, or I’ll come in there and take it!”

And something astonishing happened. The gray curtain shifted; Sorn paled and took a step backward. He might even have tried to close the door on them, but something—Serjer’s foot?—blocked it open. Then, abruptly, he calmed and said, “Yes, sir.” He fetched something from inside his desk.

Tagaret looked down at the small steel key Sorn placed in his palm. One more violation of his mother—rage gave him strength, and he shut his fist over it. “Don’t you dare do that again. Reyn, let’s go.”

They passed out again through the kitchen. Serjer didn’t come with them.

“Your First Houseman really loves you,” Reyn said. “I would never be permitted in our Maze for any reason.”

“I’m lucky,” Tagaret agreed. He’d have to make sure Serjer met no punishment when word of this got back to Father.

---

—

Strange—maybe Sorn had been too embarrassed to tell Father what had happened. Father had made no mention of Serjer or the key, only sent him off to Della’s house with a lecture on political spelunking that Tagaret now felt perfectly free to ignore. He walked out the north grounds gate, dressed in a shining suit of peridot-green, with Aloran behind his left shoulder.

Going to see Della at her home with official permission—what could possibly be better?

The city today was a whirl of excitement. The northbound radius hummed with skimmers, and the broad flagged sidewalks of the mercantile circumference thronged with people of many colors, bustling in and out of shops, or underneath the stone archways that marked the entrance to specialized Melumalai or Kartunnen shopping courtyards. A mixed-caste group stood listening to a musician play shiazin. Tagaret breathed deeper, drinking it in.

“Young Master,” said Aloran.

Aloran speaking to him spontaneously? Maybe he would ask about the key . . . “Yes?”

“Please don’t change your speed, but we’re being followed.”

Followed? Tagaret almost jerked to a stop, but Aloran’s firm hands against his back kept him moving. He whispered hoarsely, “How do you know?”

“Don’t look, sir. An Akrabitti has maintained a fixed distance behind us since we reached the circumference.”

A trasher? How could that be? “But we’ve scarcely walked a block since then.”

“Young Master, real Akrabitti keep to their own back alleyways. They rarely use circumferences, and then, only fearfully. This one moves like an Arissen, and I expect he is armed like one.”

Tagaret gulped. Maybe they should have arranged a skimmer, but it hadn’t occurred to him to use one for a trip so short. “Should we hurry? It’s not far—we could cross the street—”

“Pardon me, sir, but that would give him a clear shot at you. I’ll thank you instead to turn into the next courtyard and enter the first open shop. Can you do this?”

Tagaret nodded.

The distance to the next courtyard, measured in panicked heartbeats, felt far too long. He walked to the marble column at the corner and turned left—this was a Kartunnen courtyard with an unbroken curve of glass-fronted shops, and a fountain of a man bathing in a rivulet that fell from the roof above. For a scary second, he couldn’t distinguish doors in all the glass, but then a chrome handle presented itself, and he hurried inside. The shop sold clothing: pairs of mannequins, noble and Imbati, stood on either side of him. The proprietor came forward with her gray coat billowing.

“Welcome, sir. How may I please your tastes?”

Tagaret took a breath, but Aloran spoke in his ear. “Stand with the mannequins between you and the windows. Speak to her about anything you like until I come for you.” He didn’t go out again, vanishing instead into the back of the shop.

Tagaret cleared his throat, and identified an amber-colored suit in a sheltered spot. “Thank you, Kartunnen. Please, tell me about this suit over here—” But he couldn’t keep his mind on the Kartunnen’s voice; the possible arrival of an assassin dragged his attention to the people passing the front windows. A Melumalai man, two Kartunnen women, an Imbati woman . . .

There. A hulking figure in dark gray, his head hidden in a charcoal-colored hood, walked along the storefront and gave a single, seemingly casual glance inside. Tagaret’s stomach rolled; he tried to keep the mannequins and the Kartunnen proprietor between himself and the windows, without looking like he was hiding.

The man had taken only two steps beyond the shop door when suddenly he lost his footing and fell backward onto the sidewalk, hood slipping to reveal clean-cropped dark hair. He was up again fast, flinging up one arm defensively. Something too small to see hit the shop’s front window with a sharp crack. With his other arm, the man pulled an Arissen energy weapon.

“Mercy!” Tagaret cried. The shopkeeper screamed.

The man fired a bolt toward the entrance of the courtyard, but dropped his weapon with a grimace as another small object cracked into the shop window. He pulled a knife, but in a blur of black Aloran was on him, kicking the knife from his hand and sending the Arissen weapon after it, far across the courtyard. Aloran landed at least two blows to the side of the man’s head. The crossmarked Arissen rolled away from the attack and came up again with another knife, but Aloran whirled away from it, lashing out with one foot and striking the man in the face. The Arissen stumbled to his feet, still with the knife in his hand but with blood streaming from his nose; Aloran kept back out of arm’s reach, one of his hands raised in a blocking posture, the other cocked as if to throw something.

The Arissen turned and fled. Aloran pursued him.

Tagaret stared after, hardly able to breathe.

He couldn’t have said how much later, Aloran reappeared and started gathering up and pocketing small objects from the ground outside. At last he walked in, with his hair disarranged and his face sweaty. He looked up with concern.

“Young Master?”

Tagaret tried to say he was all right, but nothing came out. Then he looked down—and discovered a fluttering hole in Aloran’s shirt, right in the center of his chest, its edges still smoldering. He hiccuped, and his knees wobbled; Aloran’s hand took a firm hold of his elbow.

“Kartunnen,” Aloran said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m pleased that I didn’t break your windows.”

The Kartunnen answered tremulously, “May your honorable service earn its just reward, sir.”

Aloran handed her a card. “When the police come, please direct them to the weapons; I believe there is a knife in the fountain, and a bolt weapon on the far side. I hope they will contact me, but I’m afraid we must go, or we shall be late for an appointment.”

Tagaret understood vaguely when they left the courtyard and crossed the circumference into the neighborhood beyond. He managed to stumble along some distance farther, but soon found Aloran backing him up against a wall.

“Young Master,” Aloran said softly. “The danger is over. My armor vest served its purpose, and I am uninjured. I believe you would wish me to continue escorting you to our visit with the Sixth Family.”

Tagaret nodded, but his voice still wouldn’t come.

“Master Tagaret, watch me for a moment. Breathe with me.”

He nodded again. Hard at first to keep his eyes away from the hole in Aloran’s shirt—the hole the Arissen would have preferred to put in his own back. But more and more he watched the Imbati breathe in, breathe out, and tried to follow. Whether he got it quite right or not, after a minute or so the vagueness at the edges of his vision began to retreat, and he realized they were standing against the outer wall of a Grobal home, just to one side of an iron entry gate.

“Aloran,” he said. “Is this their house?”

“Yes, young Master. Shall we go in?”

Tagaret took one last deep breath and rubbed his face. “Yes, absolutely.”

They were welcomed in a white-plastered entry hall by several members of the host’s Household, who wore uniforms in an unusual combination of black and pale green. Some kind of silent communication passed between the Imbati, but Tagaret didn’t feel right leaving it alone after what had happened.

“Not to bother you, Imbati,” he said, “but my man encountered some trouble and is in need of a shirt. I would be happy to recompense you if you could provide him with one.” He hadn’t been in any shape to purchase one in the Kartunnen shop.

One of the women bowed to him. “Immediately, sir.” To Aloran she said, “If you would come with me.”

Aloran looked him in the eye for a split second before following her down a corridor on one side—Tagaret felt it as gratitude. Even safe inside these walls, he got a chill watching his bodyguard walk away.

“Tagaret of the First Family, I’m so pleased you could come.”

Tagaret turned. A door had opened leading farther into the house, and a man stood in it, wearing a smile but wringing his hands nervously. He had cheerful wrinkles around his eyes, and curly nut-brown hair going to gray; a female manservant stood behind his shoulder. He must be Della’s father, Enwin of the Sixth Family. Intriguing yojosmei melodies floated in from the space behind him.

Tagaret bowed. “No more pleased than I am to be here, Enwin, sir,” he said. Alive . . . He cleared his throat before his relief could turn into an inappropriate laugh. “Is there to be music?” Della had said something about music, hadn’t she, when they’d spoken before about meeting Kartunnen?

Enwin chuckled—friendly, but still nervous. “Yes, Della told me you loved music. She and her sister worked hard to convince me you would enjoy visiting us today. Come this way.”

“Of course.” That was strange. How had he not known that Della had a sister?

Enwin led him through a sitting room and along a corridor whose windows gave out onto a courtyard garden, with real climbing vines on the walls, silver-lit by a shinca trunk that pierced upward. Ahead, the melodies beckoned. Finally, Enwin opened a door, and music burst over them.

Such music! He’d thought it must be a group, but it was two people: they sat with their backs to him at a yojosmei made of exquisitely carved wood. All four of their hands and feet moved with joyful abandon. For an instant, Tagaret startled—was that Della, playing? But though the girl had the same gorgeous copper hair, this person was far too small, maybe only nine or ten. A gray-coated Kartunnen sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder, so they swayed together to the music. And to one side, clapping along, stood a Lady with an elderly manservant, Della and her Yoral—and Kartunnen Ryanin?

Tagaret managed not to gape. But Kartunnen Ryanin himself, visiting a private home?

“Tagaret of the First Family,” said Della’s mother, still clapping. “Come in. I hope you’ll forgive us for starting early, but Liadis keeps her own time. May I offer you something to eat or drink?”

“Ah—mm, no, thank you, Lady,” said Tagaret.

Della cast him a longing glance that struck his heart and set it racing. Today her dress was a deep blue-green color that made him think of his own ocean coat.

“Sir,” said Imbati Yoral. “Would it please you to meet our guests?”

“Yes, Yoral, thank you.” This whole room was wondrous and impossible. Live plants grew everywhere; three or more wysps floated overhead amidst mobiles of gold and crystal that hung from a sculpted plaster ceiling; and a young Grobal Lady appeared to have received the blessing of Heile just like a Kartunnen. Also, he could walk right up to Della and not strain too hard to keep his eyes away from her because it was so easy to stare at the unpainted face of Kartunnen Ryanin.

“You may shake Ryanin’s hand if you wish,” said Lady Pazeu.

Tagaret offered Ryanin his hand, incredulously. Music buoyed him higher and higher. “Well, certainly. Such a pleasure to meet you in person, Ryanin. I love your work.”

The famous composer had a lined face and dark mysterious eyes that spoke of inner inspiration—but he had a very warm smile. “I’m honored, sir.”

He was honored, too. Ryanin’s fingers brought masterpieces like The Catacomb to life—who would have imagined he’d ever actually feel their grip on his own hand?

“This is just amazing,” Tagaret said. “I confess, it’s not at all what I expected.”

“You’re kind,” said Enwin behind him. “Most would call it eccentric. Or disgusting.”

Tagaret shook his head. “I don’t think so. How in Heile’s name did you decide to train your daughter in music?”

“We didn’t decide,” said Lady Pazeu. “She did. Liadis breathes music like air. She would die without it. Della, why don’t you take Tagaret to the yojosmei and introduce him.”

“All right, Mother.”

He turned toward Della instinctively—her voice was like water after a long thirst. Della came to him, smiling; he walked eagerly beside her, her shoulder only inches from his arm. They went to the yojosmei where the two were still playing.

The Kartunnen at the yojosmei looked up, and his eyes widened in alarm. He had long, reddish-blond hair, and a burn scar on his left cheekbone. It was the boy—the same one he’d spoken to outside The Catacomb.

“You?” Tagaret said.

The Kartunnen boy sat open-mouthed in shock.

“Vant,” said the girl beside him. “Play, play—why did you stop?”

Della flitted around and embraced her sister, her hands on her shoulders and her cheek beside her hair. “Liadis, look. Someone’s here to meet you. This is my friend Tagaret. Tagaret, my sister Liadis. She’s just turned fourteen.”

Fourteen? She was so small . . . Tagaret turned away from the Kartunnen boy and searched for an escort to greet, but couldn’t find one. There were two Imbati caretakers standing by the far wall, but—

“Tagaret, Tagaret, I’ll remember that,” Liadis exclaimed. “Nice to meet you, Tagaret, do you sing?”

He had nowhere to look but directly at her—and instantly understood why he’d never heard of her existence. Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was her eyes, or her turned-up nose, or the long lips, smiling broadly over unusually small teeth. A defective, Father would call her, too weak in her blood for civilized society. Then it hit him like a blow to the stomach: Father would say that a mental defect had Lowered her, or she would have no interest in music.

He would never be like Father.

He smiled at Liadis. “Nice to meet you, too, Liadis. I’m sure I don’t sing as well as you’d like. But I think you play the yojosmei beautifully.”

“This is my yojosmei,” Liadis said, grinning infectiously. “Daddy bought it for me. And sometimes Ryanin and Vant come to play with me, and the wysps like it when we play, and come to visit. Vant has a Grobal name, did you hear that? And Ryanin has very big hands. And Della dances, don’t you, Della. Tell him what we did yesterday.”

Della kissed her sister’s hair, then turned her green eyes straight to his, as though she had permission. “We played and danced for an hour, Tagaret. You should have seen it.”

“I can imagine it,” he said fervently. “As if I’d been here.” One sister with fingers and feet dancing upon the yojosmei, the other twirling under the leaves, the gold and crystal, with the wysps lending their surreal light.

Della blushed. She was so beautiful he almost reached out to her. But though the rules surrounding Liadis were obviously different, they couldn’t be that different.

“Vant, you haven’t said anything,” said Liadis. “Tagaret, Vant is Ryanin’s apprentice. Vant, say hello.”

“Hello, sir,” said the Kartunnen boy, in his strikingly cultured voice. “Liadis, I’d prefer to play.”

“Oh, yes, let’s play,” she agreed. “Let’s play our Catacomb duet.”

Without another word, they began to play—something that was obviously an arrangement of the orchestral Catacomb for yojosmei, so dark and complex he scarcely believed it could be played by young people. Liadis rocked forward and back. Vant was more still, but his head was bowed, his eyes closed, his hands and feet moving with force and drama as if the music grew straight out of his soul.

One of the wysps near the ceiling drifted down and moved in a lazy spiral over them. In the spell of its light, only the four of them were here: Della, unescorted, gazing straight into his eyes in a way that made him quiver, and her Heile-touched sister shoulder to shoulder with a Kartunnen who for some reason had a Grobal nose to match his Grobal name.

When the song ended, he wanted to clap but stopped himself because no one else was clapping. Aloran had returned; he appeared refreshed, now wearing the black and green of the Sixth Family Household. With hardly a pause, Liadis launched into another complex piece. Kartunnen Vant stood up, and one of the Household offered him a drink, while Kartunnen Ryanin sat and began to play.

“Young Tagaret,” Enwin said quietly. “On these days, the concert never ends. Vant and Ryanin take turns so Liadis doesn’t wear them out. She will sleep all day tomorrow. Perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the house?”

“Forgive me,” said Tagaret. “I don’t want to leave the music.”

“What if I take him?” asked Della.

He stared at her. Could he be so lucky?

“Oh, do let her, darling,” Lady Pazeu said to Enwin, taking his arm. “This kind of opportunity comes so seldom.”

Della’s father pinched his lip, but then he nodded.

Yoral took Della on his arm and walked out into the corridor. Heart racing, Tagaret beckoned to Aloran and followed. They entered the silvery garden courtyard, which smelled intriguingly of dirt and flowers. Della didn’t seem inclined to carry the tour any further; she sat down in a brass chair at a small table. Tagaret joined her. The shinca cast its aura of warmth against his back. His knee was so close to hers . . .

“Liadis,” Della said. “She’s why.”

Tagaret glanced up at Yoral, who stood behind her. The stern Imbati nodded permission, so he looked back at Della with relief. “She’s why?”

“Why my father studies Lowers,” Della said. Her fingers played nervously with the edge of the brass table. “You can see that, can’t you? It’s not muckwalking, really. It’s about—”

“It’s about the music,” Tagaret agreed. “Your sister is blessed of Heile, that’s clear.”

Della looked at him seriously. “Not just the music, though. I mean, it’s not wrong for me to care for my Yoral’s happiness, is it? Nor you for your man’s. The Grobal Trust is for all of them.”

For Aloran. Tagaret looked over his shoulder. Aloran’s eyes were lowered. Even having just saved his life, the young Imbati was too respectful, too shy to be breached. That didn’t mean he didn’t deserve to have someone care for his happiness.

“I wonder,” Tagaret said. “I know it’s a strange request, but might I speak with your Yoral for a moment? About a personal matter?”

Della blinked in surprise. “Really? Yoral, would you permit it?”

Yoral didn’t look much startled; but then, he was Imbati. “If I may ask that Aloran briefly watch my Mistress, then I am willing,” he said.

“I will,” said Aloran.

The other side of the shinca seemed a good enough place so as not to take the older servant too far from his Lady. Tagaret took a deep breath. Yoral looked up at him with obvious curiosity.

“It’s not about Della,” Tagaret said. “It’s about—” He lowered his voice. “Aloran.” Then he explained, carefully, about his mother and Aloran, about the key, and the anonymous note. When he was finished, Yoral considered for several seconds.

Finally, he murmured, “Sir, how long has young Aloran worked for your mother?”

“Three days or so.”

Yoral nodded. “That explains some of it. Household rank often counts for less than experience, and in particular, a student Marked out of the Academy can be subject to political manipulation by those more established in the Maze, if you understand me.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I do.” Of course, Sorn would be just like Father.

“Thus, it would be impossible for him to take anything directly from the senior servant against his will. Ideally, the return of the key should be accomplished by a member of the family who could bear witness to the senior servant’s possession of it and leave him free of blame. Your mother’s Aloran obviously has his wits about him, young as he is.”

“But why wouldn’t he just tell my mother?”

Yoral inclined his head to one side. “I can only guess he fears somehow to approach her directly. Perhaps the key touches on a highly private matter where, given his awkward relationship with her, he is uncertain of his rights.”

A shudder ran down Tagaret’s backbone. “A highly private matter where my father was spying.”

Yoral bowed. “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.” Then he raised his voice. “Might I request that you return to my Mistress, and send Aloran to me for a moment?”

Tagaret stared at him. Return—and send—a question rose in his mind that was almost a scream, but he didn’t dare utter it for fear Yoral might change his mind. “Right away,” he said. At the brass table, Della had obviously heard the request; her mouth was open, her breast rising and falling visibly.

“Aloran, if you would,” Tagaret said hoarsely. Aloran nodded and left them.

Alone.

Was it he who first reached for her hand, or she for his? Oh, gods, it didn’t even matter—her fingers were so soft, so warm, and absolutely perfect! Her knee leaned against his, and her eyes lifted, and he fell into their green paradise.

“Della,” he whispered.

“Tagaret . . .”

“If I survive this—if I could actually be Heir—nothing anyone could say would matter.”

She kissed him.

He clung to her hands as ecstasy flooded his body and washed the entire world out from under his feet. It could not have been long enough, even if it had lasted his entire life—when her sweet lips finally left his, and her hands pulled away, he found tears in his eyes. Yoral and Aloran stood by with understanding, and pity, on their faces.

He wouldn’t dare tell anyone about this—not Reyn, not even his mother.

He had to survive Selection. For Della.