CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bodyguard

The young Master had spoken thoughtlessly, but Aloran’s body went cold. Father, are you all right? He should have noticed the worsening of Master Garr’s condition days ago: his increasing pallor, the fact that he sat in any chair available, his coughing and moments of inappropriate absence—even his breathing now, as fast as running though all he’d done was walk here from the Residence. It all pointed to a single inevitable conclusion.

Aloran leaned forward. “Lady, I must tell you . . .”

“Mm?” Lady Tamelera didn’t turn; her gaze stayed on the stage.

The Eminence Herin had taken up a microphone. Now he leapt down from the stage with a flourish and introduced his partner, Lady Falya. She sat several seats away from them, the portrait of late-term fecundity, surrounded by fluttering lady admirers. The Eminence basked in the applause that she received. Only after the applause died down did he climb back up the stairs and explain how he and the cabinet had questioned each Heir candidate in the private session just concluded.

Aloran tried again, speaking into Lady Tamelera’s ear. “Lady, your partner is seriously ill.”

She made a small inquisitive noise in her throat.

“Lady, he’s dying.”

She stiffened.

“Forgive me. It isn’t the right time to be telling you, but his heart is failing. He might have until next week—or he might die today. If he doesn’t see a doctor . . .”

Lady Tamelera turned her head slightly toward him. “But why wouldn’t Sorn—” Her voice choked off.

Aloran’s heart tried to stop beating. Sorn wasn’t here. The chair between him and Fedron’s Chenna was empty, which meant Grobal Garr wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Someone would die today.

Here. Now.

“From the First Family, allow me to introduce Nekantor,” the Eminence announced. The crowd again burst into eager applause.

Aloran tried to begin a breath pattern, but in vain; his body went numb. The Eminence started talking about young Master Nekantor’s pedigree in politics, his character, and his performance in the question session.

Aloran forced his fingers to move, feeling in his pockets for combat rounders. Only three—not nearly enough to feel fully armed.

It was hopeless anyway. Sorn’s chosen weapon gave him the advantage of range, so he’d be out of reach somewhere, hiding safely beyond the guarded perimeter. And meanwhile here he was, hemmed in on every side by the Pelismara Society. He couldn’t even leave his seat to investigate, while Sorn might strike at any second.

Think, Aloran. Measured breaths relieve the body. Relief of the body calms the mind. The calm mind is observant and prepared.

With air came logic. A sniper would place himself high, most likely in one of the buildings surrounding the Plaza. The Residence was too far away, behind its gates. The Old Forum stood at a considerable distance behind the crowd, possibly within range for an Arissen bolt weapon, but too far for a crossbow, besides which the bright light of the shinca would make sighting past it difficult. That left the Courts on the right, and the Academy on the left.

“From the Second Family, I present to you, Menni,” the Eminence said. In the swell of applause, young Master Nekantor returned to his seat and Menni of the Second Family stood up into the crowd’s hungry attention. “Menni is the only son of our well-respected Cabinet Secretary, Boros . . .”

Aloran scanned the stone columns of the Courts, the frieze of Holy Mai the Right and one’s petitioners, the roofline. If Sorn was there, he was too well hidden. He turned to the Academy, though, and disgusted certainty filled his stomach. The children of the Academy were always welcome to return, a privilege Sorn would not be granted by the wardens of the Courts. But to use the Academy, birthplace of faith and loyalty, to launch an attack? The sheer gall of it was—well, it was utterly Garr’s Sorn.

A movement: glinting steel at the roofline rail. Panic tightened his throat all over again. Sorn was there. He must have been there for minutes already, waiting. Why hadn’t he struck? Gowan of the Ninth Family had already offered him a perfect moment, as the last one to sit down when the candidates first walked up onto the stage. His bodyguard had only chosen to shelter him on the Courts side. So why was he still alive?

“From the Fifth Family, this is Innis,” the Eminence said, gesturing to the eldest, sharp-nosed candidate who now rose to stand before his chair. “Innis first distinguished himself at the age of seventeen with his service to Chief Adjudicator Uresin, and he’s already shown himself a canny politician.”

It had to be something about the ceremony. In the last Selection, Grobal Garr had struck the day after the Round of Eight, so there must be a rule in operation here—one that required the ceremony to finish before any action could be taken. That had to be it. And that meant there could be only one best target: the single boy left standing with his head exposed when the last word of the ceremony was spoken.

“And finally, from the Ninth Family, Gowan,” said the Eminence. “Son of Amyel, who has served on our cabinet since Indal 3 . . .”

Aloran stopped listening. He watched the Eminence’s lips. What Eminence Herin said meant nothing, while every word counted down toward death. Whenever he paused for air, Aloran couldn’t stop an involuntary twitch; Fedron’s Chenna cast him a look with narrowed eyes. Did she know of the plot? Would she try to stop him if he intervened?

The rounders had warmed against his fingers. He took them into the palm of his hand. There was only one possible course of action, and only one moment—the instant when the Eminence’s lips stopped moving.

Now.

He stood and threw. The first rounder hit Grobal Gowan in the ankle; the young nobleman leapt backward, clutching his foot, and the second one hit him in his standing leg, just below the knee. Aloran raised his arm for a third, but it wasn’t necessary. Grobal Gowan lost balance completely and crashed into Grobal Innis’ lap.

The Eminence’s partner screamed.

My apologies, sirs, and Lady.

Aloran replaced the last rounder in his pocket and bowed his head as the Eminence’s Cohort swarmed the stage. An orange wave surged over the candidates, down into the audience, and over Lady Tamelera and the Master in their chairs. Aloran stood still and allowed them to seize him. The Eminence’s partner and her entourage hurried away. Beside him, Fedron’s Chenna got to her feet. Chenna’s face clearly betrayed her shock—apparently this was one secret about her adversary that she hadn’t discovered.

“Imbati!” barked an enormous Arissen now clamping his left arm in mitts of steel. “You are under arrest for assaulting a gentleman of the nobility.”

Aloran took a deep breath. “The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” he said. “There is an assassin on the roof of the Service Academy. I couldn’t allow him to strike, but I couldn’t reach him, so I had to remove his target from a vulnerable position. My weapons are legal and nonlethal.”

“So you say,” scoffed the woman on his right arm.

A high voice piped up behind her—the young Master’s cousin, Grobal Pyaras. “But, Dekk, shouldn’t someone at least look?”

“He’ll be searched soon enough, sir,” the woman replied.

“I mean on the Academy roof.”

Lucky thing, that he hadn’t thrown the third rounder. He would willingly have shown it to them, but they weren’t allowing him to reach into his pockets. Aloran sought after the young man he’d felled, but Grobal Gowan had already been whisked away to safety. There was no sign that Sorn had ever taken his shot. Some kind of stir was still going on in the crowd closer to the Courts, with guards involved, but when he tried to crane his neck to see, his captors shook him straight.

“You’ll come with us, Imbati.”

Come with them? What had he done? “But, sir, my Mistress,” he protested. “She needs me.”

Lady Tamelera put a hand on the female guard’s shoulder. “Arissen, this is my manservant. I vouch for the integrity of his actions.”

“Lady . . .” said the Arissen.

“Arissen, I honor your valiance,” Tamelera said. “But I guarantee Aloran wouldn’t attack anyone if he wasn’t certain it was the only alternative. He has saved noble lives three times since the Eminence Herin took the throne.”

The woman’s hands released his right arm. “Lady,” she said, “perhaps we could—”

“Never mind her.” That was Grobal Garr. His face was chilling, livid with absolute hatred. “This is an outrage—arrest him already! I see no evidence of any attacker.”

The female guard didn’t move, but Aloran felt his arm seized again by another Arissen, and his heart dropped.

Tamelera whirled on Grobal Garr, eyes blazing.

No, no . . . Tamelera’s courage out on the surface had been frightening, but this was worse. She knew the consequences of defiance as well as he!

Mercifully, she stopped short of direct accusation. “Then find him,” she said. “Send guards to the Academy this instant.”

Grobal Garr clenched his fists. “Whatever you choose to do, Arissen, this Imbati is guilty of assault and should be held until the Ninth Family has a chance to seek redress for his actions.”

“I’ll go with him, then.”

“Nonsense, Tamelera. You don’t belong in the Cohort’s station. You’re coming home with me.”

Aloran found himself gaze-gesturing stop, stop out of pure desperation. She had to stop before she made this any worse.

Lady Tamelera broke off halfway through a breath with her mouth slightly open.

Bless her for realizing what she was doing. Aloran forced himself into a breathing pattern. He shared that urge—wanted to argue, for her, and for himself—but anything he said now would be perceived as presumption. It could only delay his return to his rightful place at her side. Her intense blue eyes, staring at him full of fear, were enough to tear him apart; he sent her a gaze-gesture of apology because it was the only thing he had left to offer.

Tamelera’s eyes moved to one side, then up, then back to meet his—a message delivered slowly but unmistakably: It’s all right.

He shivered from head to foot. She knew the code. Did that mean she’d stopped at his request? But how could she know the code? It had to be Eyli; Eyli must have taught her the gaze-gestures, in the same way that she’d taught her how to request a touch, when not even Serjer had known.

Somehow, it made the sense of loss that much worse when the guards led him away.

The two Arissen men took him to the headquarters of the Eminence’s Cohort, a stone building behind the east wing of the Residence, directly across the gardens from the Conveyor’s Hall. Soon after, more Arissen arrived, roughly escorting a Kartunnen in a medical coat. Aloran stayed away from them and kept silent until a lawyer came to his defense. The lawyer was chosen of Mai, sober and distinguished with a bronze medallion at the shoulder of one’s black silk robes, bearing between one’s brows the diamond-within-diamond Mark of servants of the Courts. Aloran kept alert to the unspoken instructions in one’s eyes, all the while wishing helplessly they could have been his Lady’s. He kept his head low, gave the Arissen the respect they demanded, sat when they told him to, stood when they told him to, and answered every question in as few words as possible—that is, every question except one.

Thank all the gods he’d seen only the weapon, and not the man holding it. He didn’t have to lie. To give Sorn’s name, while there was no evidence to bring him under arrest and while he remained under Grobal Garr’s protection, would be tantamount to suicide. Sorn would certainly suspect how much he knew; he must not be allowed to confirm it.

At last, a delegation from the Ninth Family Council appeared to question him—four men who, fortunately, seemed more baffled than angered by his actions. Here, at least, he could divulge his feelings truly. He bowed his head to the floor at their feet, apologized for the necessity, and wished young Grobal Gowan long life, health, and success. He also offered them his last rounder, which they took and discussed with their heads together. Was it enough? Would they accept his apology, or would they insist on prosecution?

They left without a word, and still the Arissen would not release him.

He clung to his Lady’s promise: It’s all right. It’s all right—oh, gods—let it be all right.

At six afternoon, to his surprise, Master Tagaret’s young cousin Grobal Pyaras walked in with his father the Administrator, alongside the Arissen woman who had first seized him. They went directly to the office of the Cohort Commander. Moments later, the Commander herself emerged from her office—

Carrying the crossbow.

Aloran bowed his head. Holy Mai, I thank you for extending your hand to me.

“Can you tell me what this is?” the Commander asked in her silky voice. She held it with disdain, as if she considered it an object of curiosity rather than a real weapon.

“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Aloran answered. “It is a Venorai hunting crossbow. It is the weapon that I saw aimed from the Academy roof toward Grobal Gowan of the Ninth Family.”

The Commander nodded. “It is also the same type of weapon used to assassinate Grobal Dest of the Eleventh Family, when Herin was selected Heir.”

Aloran did not reply, but his heart beat faster.

His lawyer stepped forward. “I hereby petition for the release, upon oath of future cooperation as witness, of Tamelera’s Aloran of the Household of the First Family.”

The Commander nodded again. “Swear, Imbati, and you shall be returned to your duties.”

He would have sworn to anything that won his release. The moment he was free, he ran diagonally across the gardens of imported surface plants, into the west wing of the Residence. Once in the public halls he took more care, but at last he reached his home service entrance, slapped his hand to the glass panel, and slipped inside.

Familiar sounds issued from the kitchen: Premel and Serjer were preparing dinner, but their talk sounded subdued and worried. He had to assume Sorn had escaped capture and returned home—but as he passed the senior servant’s room, he could see no light beneath the door.

No need to doubt this time whether his Lady wanted him; he should have been her shadow. He gave a soft knock and opened the door with the crescent-moon handle.

“Aloran!” Tamelera shrieked. “Help me!”

No—Garr had her backed against the far wall; her hair was torn down, her face contorted in pain. Garr limped toward her, his fist raised to strike again, while Sorn blocked any escape through the public door, watching with a faint smile.

Aloran didn’t think.

He leapt past the lounge chairs into the space between his Lady and her attacker, spinning to face Garr just as the nobleman’s meaty fist swung forward. It was so simple to turn the blow aside—just a gentle nudge, and Garr lurched off-balance, forcing Sorn to jump to stop him falling. Aloran spun and lifted Tamelera into his arms. She flung her arms around his neck.

“You have violated my Master’s person,” Sorn hissed, readying himself for combat—but he had to keep one arm outstretched toward his Master. Grobal Garr was swaying on his feet; his disarranged clothes showed glimpses of his pasty skin, and he bore livid scratch marks from his hairline down to his upper lip.

Crown of Mai, she was brave! Aloran filled with terrifying, presumptuous pride. He set his teeth and held Tamelera tighter. “Look to your Master, then,” he said. “You will not touch my Lady.”

Sorn did not attack.

Aloran carried Tamelera into the bathroom, shutting the door and setting his back against it. He wished he knew how to scream or cry. Instead, he let training take over. He set his Lady’s feet gently on the floor, locked the door, and guided her to sit on the brass chair to one side of the marble bath. Then he pressed the service call button.

“Aloran, don’t,” she pleaded. “I can’t see anyone else—not now.”

Aloran breathed cautiously for a moment until his voice seemed ready to behave. “Lady, I won’t let anyone in, I promise. But you’re injured. Please, let me take care of you.”

Tamelera curled on the chair, pulling her heels up to the seat and wrapping her left arm around her knees. The beautiful sunset gown draped lopsidedly toward the floor. She leaned her head forward and her ruined hair fell over her face. After some seconds she said softly, “Yes.”

Thank Heile. When Serjer came, Aloran spoke to him under the door, requesting ice and his medical kit. His Lady’s motions said clearly she’d been hit in the stomach, and punched or grabbed on the right arm. That surely wasn’t all, but it did tell him that bruising and pain had to be handled now. When Serjer returned, he opened the door a hand’s breadth to take the kit and ice bucket, then locked it again.

Aloran brought his Lady a painkilling tablet from his kit, with a glass of water from beside the marble basin. When she held out her hand for it, he stopped breathless. Touch me, the hand whispered. But it shouldn’t have—it wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t known her eyes could speak! He ignored the whisper, dropped the tablet carefully into her palm, and turned away.

Making ice packs in the available towels was simple. Applying them was far harder, because he had to look at what Garr had done. He unfastened his Lady’s gown and lifted it over her head. Her back was unharmed, and despite what had happened to her hair, so were her neck and face—perhaps an advantage of her greater height. But angry red fingermarks ringed her left upper arm, with purple stains underneath betraying deeper damage. Above her ankle, he found a bruise crossed by a red scoreline—a kick from the sole of her partner’s shoe. Aloran gave her an ice pack to hold against her stomach, wrapped and iced her arm, then knelt to apply the same treatment to her leg. But he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

“It was my fault,” Tamelera whispered.

He flushed hot. “No.”

She sat silent a moment. “I told him—what you told me,” she said. “Thinking . . . maybe, that he would appreciate it if I cared enough to save his life? But he went crazy.”

The heat crept into his eyes. “It’s my fault, then.”

“It can’t be, Aloran. You had to tell me; it was your duty as my servant.”

“So was it your duty, as his partner.” His fingers stopped on the bandages. “But I made it worse. I resisted when he tried to take you away, and that’s why I wasn’t here—” The image of violence crashed over him again. He struggled not to hyperventilate. “I vowed to protect you—and I wasn’t here—”

“Aloran, look at me.”

He did, straight into her eyes, unable to resist a reckless wish that they might speak to him again.

“You saved Gowan’s life,” she said. “I’m grateful, and not only because of the Selection. He and Tagaret are very close. I don’t know how Tagaret could have coped if he lost another of his friends.” Her gaze flicked down, and she blinked before raising it again—the gesture for gratitude, performed with the grace of long practice.

His skin prickled in curiosity and fear. Was this the intimacy that she had known with Eyli? Such privilege was almost more than he could bear.

“Lady,” he said, trying to tear his gaze away. “May I be excused? I can fetch you fresh clothes—perhaps, something to eat?”

“No—” Panic seeped into her voice. “Aloran, you can’t—please, don’t leave me.”

Aloran bowed his head. As a compromise, he walked as far as the service call button, and summoned Serjer, who brought her nightdress. While she rested from the ice, he called again, for a drink of milk. Then for a second application of ice. A bowl of soup. He took the pins out of her hair and brushed out all signs of the afternoon’s fight, watching the tension slowly leave her neck and shoulders. After a time, he no longer wanted relief from her presence. Here was safety, and the comfort of his selfless duty, while outside this room was only danger, and questioning.

“Aloran?” she asked.

“Yes, Lady?”

“Would you ring for Serjer?”

“Of course.”

This time, his Lady allowed the First Houseman entry. Serjer maintained admirable control, but his calm was not so perfect that Aloran couldn’t read the horror in his eyes.

“Thank you for everything, Serjer,” Tamelera said. “Where is Garr now?”

Serjer bowed. “In his office, Mistress. With Sorn, and young Master Nekantor.”

“Lock the door of my room, then. And bring a day mattress; set it up next to my side of the bed.”

“Mistress.” Serjer’s eyes flicked over to Aloran’s, but perhaps out of a new caution, they gestured nothing. The First Houseman bowed out of the room.

In spite of Serjer’s preparations, coaxing Tamelera to leave the bathroom proved to be difficult. In the end, Aloran convinced her to allow him out long enough so he could block Sorn’s entry door with the chair from her writing table and lock the door from his own room into the Maze. No sooner had she emerged than she went straight to bed, and asked him to close the curtain at the bed’s foot—no doubt, to block her view of the wall where she’d been cornered. He only wished he could have thought of it first.

She didn’t ask him to sleep on the day mattress. She didn’t need to. Aloran took off his boots and his suit jacket and lay down, staring up at the lights in the vaulted ceiling.

“Aloran,” she said. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, Lady.”

Her answering sigh of relief lightened his heart, and she fell quiet for a time, but just when he thought she might be sleeping, she gasped.

“Aloran!”

“I’m here, Lady.”

She continued to call his name far into the night.