CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ambush

Aloran waited outside the bathroom door, listening to the swirls and gurgles of his Lady in her morning bath. The risk of sending the note had been worth it: his trespass appeared to have escaped Sorn’s notice, and Lady Tamelera had changed in the last two days, ever since young Master Tagaret had taken back her key. The difference was subtle—she still didn’t permit him in the bathroom—but he’d passed all of yesterday with no random dismissals at all.

Della’s Yoral had told him he had a new champion, to whom he would owe his gratitude for any change that came.

He would risk his life happily if it meant saving young Master Tagaret again.

Beneath the bathroom door came the rush that meant his Mistress was emerging from the water. He imagined her drying herself unaided, and dressing in the underwear and slip he had laid out for her. The hair dryer hummed. And she should open the door right about—

Lady Tamelera opened the door. “Aloran?”

He stood as straight as he could. “Yes, Lady.”

“Please help me into my gown this morning and brush my hair. I’d like to look my best for the Announcement of Candidates and Round of Twelve event.”

Blessing of Mai. He bowed deeply. “Yes, Lady.”

She approved the dawn gown when he brought it to her. It was an unusual piece: bright yellow orange at the lower hem which he guided down over her head; pale gray blue at the neckline which he carefully slid up over her shoulders. He fastened a button at the small of her back which was almost green—each button faded subtly until they became pale blue between her shoulder blades.

Lady Tamelera took a seat in one of the lounge chairs and shook her hair down over the back. Its red-gold mass fell heavy and damp over his fingers. Applying the brush to it felt so perfectly appropriate—he poured himself into every stroke, making this simple duty a symbol of his gratitude. See how I serve you, Lady. See me . . .

“Aloran,” she said.

“Yes, Lady.”

“You know, how you saved Tagaret from an assassin?”

He kept the brush moving. “I did not capture the man, Lady. I would have been more pleased to save the young Master from the one who sent him.”

“Nonetheless, you did well,” she said. “And in another way, too—getting Tagaret to return my key.”

Aloran flushed all the way to his feet. Apparently, his involvement was not a secret after all. She was kind to sit him safely behind her before saying such a thing.

Lady Tamelera turned her head; her hair shifted through his hands, and he glimpsed her profile—so very Grobal, yet admirably self-possessed in spite of her years of difficulty with the Master. “You are loyal to my interests, Aloran,” she said. “I was unfair; I see that now. I’d like to show you how grateful I am, and I believe we have time before the Family gathers.”

Breathe. Brush. “Your word is honor enough, Lady. I do my duty gladly.”

“I insist. Please take me to the clothing shop Tagaret told me about.”

A smile escaped to his face. Aloran let the brush stop. “Yes, Lady.”

They went by skimmer to save time. Today he had leisure to notice the shopkeeper’s name, Kartunnen Jaia, written in gold script on the front window. Jaia recognized him and kept glancing at him even as she greeted his Lady.

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

“I would like to purchase a suit for Aloran, who saved my son’s life here two days ago.”

Strange; she still didn’t call him my Aloran. But he was thrilled enough just to be here with her, seeing the mannequins for their clothing and not their potential as shields.

Kartunnen Jaia bowed. “Yes, Lady.”

“Something innovative, I think. More than just black—embroidery would be nice, if you have it.”

“Of course, Lady.” Jaia turned to him and smiled with her red-painted lip. “Imbati, sir, would you please come with me?”

Aloran followed her to a rack in the back corner of the shop. To judge by her sudden air of modesty, these must be personal designs—a far better quality than he’d ever choose for himself. He picked one with a black jacket that glimmered blue and retreated to try it on. Before he had put on more than the trousers, however, Jaia tapped at the metal door and her hand appeared above it, holding another suit.

“May your honorable service earn its just reward, sir. Your Lady suggests this piece.”

“Thank you, Kartunnen.”

Her intervention was well-timed, because the suit he’d chosen didn’t fit well across his shoulders. Unfortunately, the new suit was ostentatious. Black silk with a sheen of garnet-red—the romantic color of Sirin the Luck-Bringer—embroidered on the front of the jacket with a fountain of dark fire in shades of red, garnet, and black.

He gulped and put it on. It was impressively made. The jacket closed with hook fittings under his left arm, and had excellent pocket design including multiple invisible placements sealed with magnetic closures. It fit perfectly.

“Aloran,” Lady Tamelera called. “Come; let me see you.”

Now she asked to see him. He had to comply. He stepped out with head lowered, breathing a careful pattern to brace himself for her judgment. She’d never approve—she’d never want him so visible . . .

“It suits you,” Lady Tamelera said.

Aloran looked up. “Thank you, Lady.”

Her head was angled to one side, her eyes gently considering. “The fire was a risk, but it really does match your—” She broke off and blushed. “Well, your hair. Kartunnen, I’ll take this one; Aloran, you may as well just keep it on.”

“Yes, Lady.”

Safe in the dressing room, Aloran shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t argue with her eye for quality. He sorted through the pockets of the suit he’d worn and transferred two heavy handfuls of combat rounders into the lower pockets of the new jacket, where they stayed without altering the fit. His business cards went in an upper pocket. The medications he’d purchased fit in the inside pocket with a pair of treatment gloves, and the adrenaline delivery device slipped easily into a hidden pocket of the sleeve. Heile grant he wouldn’t need them, but now, three days after the Ball, the window of doubt would be closing fast. Folding his old clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

The fire pattern didn’t match his hair. It matched his Mark.

His stomach quivered with a sense of invasion—or was it division? How could Lady Tamelera have perceived his Mark as separate from himself? Yet he could hardly say that was not her right. He had nothing to hold back from her, not when those lines of ink carried her name.

Returning with her to the suite, he kept himself on high alert, watching every Grobal he passed for signs of ill health.

“Tamelera, where have you been?” Grobal Garr demanded as they entered.

“Out,” Lady Tamelera replied unrepentantly. She strode forward and clasped her son’s gloved hand; Aloran kept close in her wake. A small group of nobles had gathered, including young Master Tagaret, young Master Nekantor, Arbiter Erex of the First Family Council, and Grobal Fedron. Aloran silently acknowledged Sorn, Kuarmei, and Chenna—and his heart went cold.

Chenna’s crown of hair had been chopped off. She’d clearly rescued it from hideousness by a merciless application of scissors that left her looking like a soldier. Aloran managed not to look at Sorn again, but only he could have gotten close enough to violate her person. And if he knew to punish Chenna, then he knew.

“Well, Tamelera,” said the Arbiter of the First Family Council, “Tagaret insisted we wait before making any announcements, but I’m sure this will come as no surprise. Tagaret will take the stage today as the First Family’s candidate for Heir.”

The Lady tensed. “Tagaret, love—I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job.”

“Thanks, Mother,” the young Master said. “It’s making me pretty nervous.”

She laughed. “Me, too.”

“And me, in fact,” said the Arbiter. “Young Tagaret, your new bodyguard will be here momentarily, so make sure you get acquainted. I’ll go down ahead and see how arrangements are progressing for the event.”

“See you in a few minutes, Erex,” said Grobal Garr, rubbing his hands.

“Aloran, you may put away your things,” said Lady Tamelera.

“Yes, Lady.” With a knot in his throat, Aloran ducked quickly through the Master and Lady’s chamber into his own room. He scanned it carefully, and it appeared undisturbed—but might not stay that way. Leaving his old suit on his bed, he locked his Maze door before returning to his place at his Lady’s dawn-clad shoulder.

Lady Tamelera wasn’t standing as close to her son as she had been, because the Selection bodyguard had arrived. He was an Eminence’s Cohort man of maybe twenty-five, built like a crag of granite; his sheer physical presence created a respectful circle around them.

Guests had started arriving in droves—not a bad thing, since it would keep Sorn from acting against him openly. Young Master Nekantor, however, had retreated to the stone wall alongside Grobal Benél of the First Family. Even young Master Tagaret seemed disturbed by the general excitement.

“It’s just a bit overwhelming, I guess,” he sighed. With one hand, he shaded his eyes from nosy stares. “I appreciate you being here—Arissen Veriga, was it?”

“That’s correct, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I expect you’ll keep a close eye on him,” Lady Tamelera said.

“Absolutely, Lady,” Arissen Veriga replied. “It’s an honor.” The man knew his job well, because his eyes took in the entire crowd without missing the manservants. That personal attention, whenever it came near, felt like the hot crush of a steam press. Aloran began a breathing pattern, and even Sorn stiffened when the Arissen looked his way.

“Well, he makes me nervous,” a voice complained—that was the robust young cousin who had accompanied young Master Tagaret to the Accession Ball. “I hate Arissen.”

Arissen Veriga raised an eyebrow.

“Pyaras!” young Master Tagaret snapped, turning on the younger boy. “You don’t. Fine if you hate Nek and Benél for what they did, but you know nothing about Arissen at all.”

That was more petulance than expected from the young Master, but it was effective. Grobal Pyaras was shocked into silence.

“See here: Pyaras, this is my new bodyguard, Veriga. Veriga, this is my cousin Pyaras, who just happens to be too strong for his own good. It might help him if he knew what Arissen were really like.”

Arissen Veriga smiled and saluted. “When my duties allow, I would be happy to speak to you casually, sir.”

Grobal Pyaras flushed and looked at his feet. “Thanks, Arissen.”

“Veriga,” corrected young Master Tagaret.

“All right: Veriga,” said Grobal Pyaras. Tears came into his voice. “Tagaret, you know I didn’t mean it. I’m tired—I’m going home.” He shoved through the crowd and disappeared out the front door, just as a commotion of new guests arrived, including Lady Selemei and Ustin.

“Selemei!” Lady Tamelera called, moving toward her with open arms.

Young Master Tagaret gave an exhausted sigh.

The sound of it stopped Aloran’s feet and pulled him around to look. The young Master had his hand pressed beside his eye again, his weight resting on one back heel, and when he turned, there was something uncertain about the movement—a lack of balance. . . ?

Aloran held his breath.

No, no, it wasn’t possible. He had worn gloves during the entire Ball. And yet, there had been that short time when his father took them. Had he touched anyone?

Yes, he had. Reyn of the Ninth Family, Fernar of the Eleventh Family—and his cousin Pyaras, who had just left complaining of fatigue.

Aloran’s heart went frantic. If this was Kinders fever, he might have only seconds to act—but Lady Tamelera was moving away, and Arissen Veriga was on guard, not letting anyone get too close. Aloran tried to be invisible, moving slightly sideways to narrow the distance between himself and young Master Tagaret. Hard to evaluate the boy’s breathing just by watching him. What if he was imagining things?

Young Master Tagaret wasn’t looking at Lady Selemei or the crowd around the door. He shifted his feet, and his balance tilted slightly past normal.

Aloran tensed, trying to right him by force of will. No, young Master, no . . . Oh, let this be something else—something minor—

Young Master Tagaret cleared his throat heavily and gave a cough.

So be it. If he was wrong, he would accept punishment, but anaphylaxis was final.

“Imbati,” said Arissen Veriga. “Is something wrong?”

“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Aloran said. He released the adrenaline device into his hand. “I wish to attend to young Master Tagaret. He may be ill.”

The Arissen frowned suspiciously. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“Sir, the young Master—”

Master Tagaret made a wheezing sound; the Arissen turned away to look at him.

Now. Aloran spun past Arissen Veriga and lunged for the young Master’s leg, driving the needle in—and then the Arissen’s shoulder slammed into his stomach.

Breath gasped out of him. Aloran fell backward into a roll, but there was no point resisting. The room erupted into shouts and screams. The Arissen bunched fists in his jacket, lifted him, and shoved him into the wall. By the time he could breathe again, the entire room was in a fury, and the enraged Arissen was panting in his face, holding him high with his feet dangling.

“I knew it,” said young Master Nekantor’s voice from the back. “I knew that Imbati played games.”

Grobal Garr stormed forward with Plis’ own anger on his face. “You!” he shouted. “A traitor in my house!” Behind him, Sorn looked pleasantly surprised.

“Aloran,” said Lady Tamelera. “How could you?”

The dismay in her eyes was worse than the Arissen’s grip. “Lady, forgive me—the young Master is ill.”

At the center of the crowd, with his mouth open in an incredulous gasp, young Master Tagaret bent and removed the needle of the adrenaline device from his thigh. He never straightened. He swayed too far; then his long legs gave way and he collapsed on the floor.

“Tagaret!” the Lady cried.

Aloran felt an ache in the back of his throat. Why couldn’t he have been there to catch him? He didn’t want to be right—but the adrenaline alone wasn’t enough to account for a collapse, nor for the way the young Master struggled for air as he lay shaking, clearly unaware of the shocked gazes all around him.

Breathe, Master Tagaret. Oh, Heile’s mercy, breathe . . .

Lady Tamelera broke from her position and fell beside her son, her gown deflating.

Aloran cried, “Lady, don’t touch him!”

She looked up, straight into his eyes, and her face turned white. Then she gathered her gown in two fists and stood, with all the glorious stature of Mai the Right in battle.

“Selemei, take your party out, now. Arissen Veriga, you will release Aloran this instant!”

“Yes, Lady.”

The fists loosened on his clothes and lowered him. The moment his feet touched the floor, Aloran ran to his Lady, pulling on his treatment gloves and gathering the medications from his pockets. She looked at him, and for an instant he glimpsed terror and desperation, but then her armor closed again.

Aloran touched his fingers to the young Master’s neck. Grobal Tagaret’s pulse was racing—probably just the adrenaline—but already he felt hot to the touch. At least he was breathing, his face red instead of blue.

“Young Master,” Aloran said, “can you hear me?” It was no use. He’d never drink an oral medicine in this state—it would have to be the needle. He opened the vial in question and glanced at his Lady. She nodded, then raised her voice to the crowd.

“Everyone, we’re dealing with Kinders fever here. Fedron, please send Chenna to Administrator Vull’s to warn him Pyaras may be ill. Now all of you get out—and for your own safety, go straight home and wash before you go anywhere else.”

Chenna flickered out, fast as a flame. The Lady had done well to send Lady Selemei’s group out first; the rush that followed was punctuated with cries of panic but resulted in little more than bumping and shoving before everyone was gone.

Aloran rolled up young Master Tagaret’s sleeve, barely able to contain a helpless shudder at the sight of the blue veins in his arm. Give me another assassin instead; I swear, I’d take it! He clung to his training and delivered the shot. Heile grant he’d given it soon enough to blunt the worst of the fever spike. Now all they could do was get him safely to bed. He slipped his arm beneath the young Master’s shoulder and his knees, carefully supporting his head, and carried him toward his rooms. The Lady ran ahead and opened the door.

Grobal Garr thumped after them. “Tagaret, you can’t!” he cried. “Merciful Heile, what do we do now? I have to find Erex—where is Erex? We don’t have time to convene the Council!”

Lady Tamelera slammed the door in his face and fell against it, sobbing. “Council!” she moaned. “Who in Varin’s name cares about the Council at a time like this?”