CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Fall

Dirt in the dark, sticky shadows full of Lowers. The alleyway gaped at him from between the walls, the stinking mouth of some awful creature. Its breath reached outward, the sticky shadows reaching toward him like fingers.

“Karyas,” Nekantor panted. “Get me out of here.”

“Sir?” said Karyas. “What about your brother?”

Tagaret had gone into it. Oh, gods, he’d gone into it, and he would come out of it wearing the creature’s breath, carrying the shadows— “Karyas, now!”

The Arissen shot a glance at her friend, who shrugged and nodded.

In that second, the tips of the sticky shadows touched, and clung.

“Yes, sir,” Karyas said. She drove fast, but it was too late, too late, and the shadows crawled up his fingers, to his hands, his arms. They wouldn’t let go, even in the light of the Conveyor’s Hall, not even in the noble halls of the Residence. Oh, gods!

He ran straight to Benél’s suite, banged on the door, and snapped at the Imbati who opened it, “Get me Benél.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said the Imbati blandly.

He was allowed into the vestibule, at least. Seconds passed. Nekantor clenched his fists, struggled for breath, feeling the scream coming. The shadows tightened, crawling toward his shoulders, onto his neck. He whimpered aloud.

Benél came through the curtain. “Nek?”

“Benél,” Nekantor pleaded. “Touch me.”

Benél shot a quick glance over his shoulder, but the Imbati had gone. He moved in fast—arms, hands, mouth. A shock of power, relief so overwhelming Nekantor could scarcely stand. The shadows were gone. He murmured, “More . . .”

“Shh,” Benél said. “If you want to come in, you’ll have to stay quiet.”

Nekantor shook his head. “Come out with me? Carefully, this time, mind you.”

Benél’s eyes flicked to one side, toward the servant’s curtain. “Remeni,” he said, in a low voice. “I’m going out.”

Yes, yes. Only fifty-seven paces left, and he took them fast. Benél didn’t touch him again, but they walked together. He could still taste power in his mouth. He slapped the contact pad of his own suite, and walked in.

Father sat on the couch, facing him with Sorn behind his shoulder.

Wrong. Something was different. The scratches on his face, they were . . . no, they were still there. He’d covered them with paint?

“You missed an appointment,” Father growled. “You and Tagaret both. The Tenth Family was to meet with us tonight. Arrange an alliance. And just look what you’ve been doing!”

“You have no idea what I was doing,” Nekantor snapped, but he could feel Benél take a step backward. He clenched his fists. “I was on Selection business, since you’re in no shape to go out. What do you think you are with all that paint, some kind of Kartunnen?”

Father’s face darkened. “You’d better send that boy away. He’s stolen your face, and if you let him, he’ll steal your throne as well.”

Suddenly, the front door clicked, and Tagaret walked in. Nekantor leapt sideways, away from the sticky shadows. “Stay back, Tagaret.”

“Nek? Benél?” Tagaret said in surprise, and then his voice cracked. “Father?”

Father lurched to his feet. “Gnash you both—where in Varin’s name have you been?”

Tagaret answered stiffly. “We were negotiating for the Selection.”

“You’re both idiots!” Father shouted. “I negotiate for the First Family! How many times do you think the Tenth Family will offer us that girl before they tire of our incompetence?”

Tagaret turned bright red.

Nekantor snorted. “So now it’s our fault? You’re the one who looks like he lost a fight with a kanguan.”

“Enough.” Power, like boulders grinding. “Young Benél, you’re going home right now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Benél.

“Tagaret, Nekantor, get to your rooms. From now on, you’ll go nowhere unless it’s with me.” Father wheezed and started coughing.

Tagaret said nothing.

Nekantor looked at Benél. That was not defeat in his eyes as he left; it was anticipation. Nekantor shivered but lowered his head. The capitulation move was called for now. That would get him to Benél sooner.

“Yes, Father,” he said. Then he ran—ran before Father could catch his breath, before Tagaret could contaminate him again with the sticky shadows. He locked himself into his room and leaned against the door. Ran his finger along the crack between bronze and stone. From there, he moved to his desk, pushed on each closed drawer, and pushed in his chair. Checked the window shade—I’ll come back to you—ran his hand up the bed to the bedside table, tapped, one, two, three. Crossed to the wardrobe and pressed its doors shut, caressed its cool brass drawer handles. Then the bathroom door, the main door.

Now he could go back to the perfect window shade, open it, and open the window.

“Nek,” Benél called.

“Come up,” Nekantor hissed.

Benél’s hands came to the stone sill, and Benél vaulted up—fell back on the first try, but on the second, he stayed and wriggled in. Nekantor backed off into the center of the room.

Benél picked himself up, brushed himself off. All disarranged. The sight of it set hooks in Nekantor’s mind, pulling his hands toward Benél’s clothes, straightening, but stroking, too. Oh, Benél was very strong. Nekantor breathed hard, feeling power grow in his stomach. Perfection felt very close now.

Benél moved behind him. Benél’s strong hands came over him, electric with power. Nekantor watched his vest buttons come undone, three-two-one, and Benél pulled the vest down off his shoulders and twisted it around his wrists. Jerked him backward, up against Benél’s body hard and insistent. Nekantor gasped in relief and delight, and turned, and found Benél’s mouth for a kiss—a hot push of permission. The rest of the buttons went very fast, nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one. Benél shoved him hard, down onto the bed; pulled his arms up over his head; pushed his legs apart.

Nekantor lay limp and breathless. Anticipation skittered across his naked back. He listened for Benél.

Benél stalked behind him, breathing like a cave-cat, a promise of violence. Power, it was all power! He could feel it now, and it would pound him, penetrate him, echo inside him until there was room for nothing but that perfect relief—no shadows, no Fathers, no brothers, no buttons. Ah, perfection, how could he wait?

“Benél, please.”

The cave-cat pounced.

Screaming pleasure filled his body, his mind, until everything was Benél, and there was nothing else.

Nothing left.

Nothing.

---

—

When Nekantor woke, his body was nerveless, his mind empty as a drained glass. He drew a slow breath. Sighed, “Benél.”

Benél had stayed over. His hand slid under Nekantor’s hip, pulled him into a curl, and the strong arms wrapped around him.

“My brother is useless,” Nekantor sighed. “He made the stupidest offer imaginable with the Sixth Family yesterday. No wonder they didn’t believe us. He should just jump in a crevasse.”

Benél shifted against him. “I thought you had a plan for everybody.”

“Fah.”

“Come on,” Benél said. “I’m sure he’s good for something. Even Yril and Grenth were good for something.”

Nekantor rolled on his stomach, pushed himself up on his elbows, and looked at Benél. “But now everyone knows he’s not going to be Heir.”

Benél shrugged; muscles moved in his shoulders. “He’s attractive. He survived the fever. He’s First Family. If you keep him beside you, he can make you look good.”

“Or he can make offers the First Family won’t deliver on, and run off into filthy Lowers’ holes when nobody’s looking.”

Benél snorted. “Nek, who cares what he does when nobody’s looking? Who cares what he offers? He might not get you many votes, but you don’t need them all, just enough. Once you win, you could do anything with him. Put him on the cabinet. Make him work for you.”

Ah—when Benél understood, he was powerful. Nekantor smirked. “Well, he’d be better than that Selemei creature. Of course, then I’d have to see his rock-toad face all the time. I’d much rather look at you.”

Benél smiled and pulled him close.

Rap-rap on the door.

Go away. Knocking would not bother him. Nothing would bother him now; Benél was all that mattered.

Benél’s hands stopped moving. “Nek,” he said. “Maybe you should answer.”

“Tagaret can get lost in an adjunct.”

Louder: bang-bang. And still louder: Bang-bang-bang!

“That sounds like your father, Nek.”

Father, who did not want him with Benél. Father, who still had power and this one last day to win him votes before the Round of Four. “Oh, fine. But let’s get you out of here. No evidence.”

They got up and dressed. Father kept banging, but the door was locked, and he could not breach their citadel. Benél kissed him, smiled, and hopped out the window. Nekantor closed the window and the shade, and made the bed. Combed his hair. Remembered his coat. Straightened his cuffs. By the time he opened the door, Father was red in the face, breathing hard. Arissen Karyas was hiding a smirk.

“You’ve defied me.” Father lumbered past him into the room, but now everything was perfect, with no sign that Benél had been here. “You little tunnel-hound!”

“Which votes do you wish me to win today, Father?”

Father only growled and went out to the drawing room. He banged on Tagaret’s door.

The locked door. No, no—Nekantor looked away fast, toward the amethyst geode in the corner. He turned inward to the perfection that remained in his body. Then Tagaret’s lock clicked open.

“Tagaret,” said Father. “You’re coming out with us to win the Tenth Family’s vote. And you’ll have to look good. You’ve got four minutes to get as handsome as Holy Sirin himself.”

“I hate you,” said Tagaret.

Abruptly, the double doors opened. The First Houseman walked in and bowed. “Young Master Nekantor,” he said. “An urgent message: the Eminence wishes to see you.”

Father’s anger exploded into a question. “What?!”

The Imbati didn’t flinch. “Master?”

“No, I got it,” Father said. “Let’s go.”

Serjer bowed. “The Eminence has requested to see him alone, sir.”

Now Father looked over, accusing. “Impossible!”

Nekantor narrowed his eyes. There was no scheduled interview today. This was different, and unexplained. “Herin bends the rules when it pleases him,” he said. “Where?”

“In his private library, sir,” the Imbati said.

The room of chaos and traps. Oh, yes, Herin was playing a game—a game within the larger game, and one whose shape he couldn’t see. It twisted a knot in his throat. “Fine.”

Nekantor beckoned Karyas toward the door. Karyas already had her weapon drawn; she knew this summons wasn’t within the rules. Father followed with his Sorn, because he still had power enough to insist. Nekantor walked fast, trying not to feel the wrongness of Father following. But it would be all right; so long as Father didn’t enter the library, he would not be disobeying the Eminence’s order, and it should be safe enough.

What was Herin’s game? Would he ask a favor? That might be good. Just as likely, the room would be full of open teeth. Careful, careful now. Could someone have swayed Herin with another sort of offer?

The library doors opened as they approached. “Come in, Nekantor of the First Family, sir,” the Eminence’s Imbati said. “The Eminence does not like to wait.”

Father caught up, panting and wheezing. Perfect: no breath to argue.

“Thank you, Imbati,” Nekantor said, walking forward. “Sorry if I’m late. Father, I’ll be out in a few moments.” He looked down at his watch. Yes, an excellent first move, and it would keep him safe going in—but inside, the Eminence was not where he should have been. He would have to look up, find where he was sitting.

What if he looked up, and the room strangled him?

“Nekantor of the First Family,” the Eminence’s voice said.

There, on the left. Nekantor turned and looked up. Herin was seated in a stuffed chair, wearing a suit of glimmering brown and amber, every dark gold curl on his head shaped and perfect. But he was not smiling. Another man stood beside him.

Erex, the Arbiter of the First Family Council.

What are you doing here?

He managed not to say it aloud. “Good morning, your Eminence. Good morning, Arbiter Erex, sir.”

“Good morning, young Nekantor.”

Erex was the reason he was here. And Erex had arrived here before him, which meant secret games. Information had been exchanged, here among the random chairs, in the presence of the shinca, under the strange lights.

What did Erex have on him? Information about Garr’s assassinations? Surely not. Had someone tracked his Kartunnen infiltrator back to Karyas? But she’d said she knew how to be careful . . . Was it the blackmail? It couldn’t be the brothel; that, Herin already knew about. Was it Benél? Too many possibilities, each a potential disaster if he let slip his tongue and guessed wrong.

He cleared his throat. “I imagine the Family’s Arbiter has come to you with some complaint about me, your Eminence?” He shifted his feet; the carpet squirmed. He tried to look at Erex, and his throat tightened; he took a deep breath and turned back fast to Herin, to the Eminence’s handsome face and his gleaming buttons. “Is it that I have bad manners with people I don’t like? If so, then he’s telling you something you already know.”

Herin smiled. “I find your aggression refreshing, young Nekantor. Erex and I have been chatting, and he believes I should disqualify your candidacy. What do you think of that?”

Traitor. Nekantor lashed a look at Erex—mistake. The sight of him brought the chaos encroaching all around. He looked down quickly at his watch, dared count only four seconds, then looked up at Herin again. At least Herin was easy on the mind. “I’m surprised that the Arbiter of my Family Council would want to undermine his own judgment in this manner,” Nekantor said. “He approved me.”

Herin chuckled.

Amusement? Derision? Nekantor tried not to clench his teeth. If Herin had been told of the blackmail, and forgiven Erex, then this game was already lost. But Erex couldn’t have told him. No one could forgive what Erex had done. Impossible.

The Eminence said, “I did tell him he had insufficient grounds.”

“I’m sure.”

“But still, what he says concerns me. That you would turn down an offer of partnership, preferring the company of a male cousin. Overnight, no less. It’s behavior unbecoming an Heir to the legacy of Grobal Fyn.”

Holy Twins. This wasn’t about Father or Karyas, or the brothel. It was about Benél! Anger burned in his face, sparked fire in his chest. He’d been careful, hidden the evidence, even made Benél change his behavior when Father said to— but Erex hadn’t come into his house to warn him. He’d been there to betray him!

“The partnership offer was flawed on its own merits,” Nekantor said. “Call me sentimental, but I refused the girl because my brother wanted her more. It has nothing to do with—with spying in my house, and slander on the basis of thin suspicion.”

Herin chuckled again. “You do have bad manners with people you don’t like,” he said. “But if a boy wants me to support him, he needs to be above suspicion.”

He knew what that meant. Herin believed Erex; that was two votes gone, maybe more if Herin decided to talk.

But he had information on Erex: Erex naked with a Kartunnen whore. Erex was tainted. Erex must be removed.

“Eminence,” Nekantor said, “I think you ought to know where Arbiter Erex first came by his suspicions.” He refused to look at Erex, at the weird half-empty bookshelves, the shinca or the lights. “My cousin Benél and I saw him in the brothel raid.”

“A ridiculous accusation,” Erex burst out. Predictable. “Are you confessing to involvement in illegal activity?”

The Eminence Herin held up one hand. “Arbiter, wait. Young Nekantor and I have discussed this on a previous occasion; I know what he was doing at the raid.” He frowned. “What were you doing there?”

Erex said nothing.

Ah, feel the power shift! “Benél and I both saw him,” Nekantor said. “He was in the first room we opened, enjoying the services of a Kartunnen man. And when we came in to punish those who dared to put the health of the Grobal at risk, he threatened us.” He stood straighter. “Our own Family’s Arbiter threatened us, to protect his Lower lover! Bring Benél here and ask him now if you like; he’ll tell you the same.”

Herin lost his composure. His eyes widened in shock, turning, shifting irresistibly toward Erex. And look at Erex now: pale and shaking, and only his Imbati woman kept him standing.

But he should never have looked at Erex.

Chaos invaded suddenly, pushing through his skin and up his nerves. Gods, the room was closing, he had to get out—no, he had to breathe, he hadn’t finished the move. Erex must not bring him down—Erex must fall alone! The air tightened; Nekantor gulped it fast, forcing words out with his hands shaking. “Accuse me if you like,” he panted. “Say I’ve neglected the Race for the sake of my brother.” The panic hit his backbone, and he clenched his fists. “But I’m not the one fraternizing with Lowers who are conspiring against us!”

He ran. Dodged the chairs, fumbled at the door, stumbled out and into Karyas, bounced off.

“Nekantor! What happened?” Father demanded.

No, not Father—he swerved around him, down the hall. The Arissen woman caught up swiftly.

“Home,” he snapped. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

He needed Benél—but it had gone too far, and they had been betrayed.

He ran home, into his rooms, slammed the door, and screamed. He should never have made the bed. The disarranged sheets might have pulled him back into perfection, but now there was no sign left of Benél. He flung himself on the bed, felt for his bedside table, and his fingers found the whore’s ring. He traced it in circles, counting. Counting and counting, until the vibrations of chaos slowly—too slowly—began to still.

This was bad. He’d lost two votes, maybe more; his line in the game had been jolted aside. What were the next moves? Erex’s disgrace might be enough to distract Herin from spreading the Arbiter’s accusations, but was it? Had Herin made any note of his last words? There were things to do, moves that had been planned, but were they the right ones now? Without the pattern, he couldn’t move.

Father banged on the door. “Nekantor! What happened? Come out—we have to meet the Tenth Family!”

Nekantor didn’t answer. He’d lost the Sixth Family’s vote because he hadn’t brought Father. He’d lost the Third Family’s votes because Father had warned him, but he hadn’t hidden the evidence quickly enough, completely enough. He needed the Tenth Family’s vote, but Herin had dropped a stone into the game, and who knew how far the ripples would spread? If they went out, they would meet the rumors—and how could Father defend him with scratches on his face, and Lower paint, too?

No: he had to stay here, safe, until he found the pattern again.

“Nekantor!”

He would not say Father had been right. He would not ask for help.

“Nekantor, open this door!”

“No!”

Father howled in rage, but he did not have the key, and he could not open a lock with a wire, and at last there was silence.

Nekantor sat alone, searching for the pattern. In Benél’s room he had seen it, but to search there was too great a risk. Father’s office was a mess of papers; he would find no pattern there.

He would not ask Father for help.

No one brought him food. He didn’t care. He circled out hours until sleep grabbed him and pushed him down. Morning brought no better vision, only the Round of Four descending on him like heavy darkness. He searched, searched for the pattern.

Behind the curtain on his wall, a door opened. Nekantor whirled on it. “Imbati!” Whoever this was, he would pay for entering where he was not welcome . . .

No one came in. A tray of food slid through onto his floor, and he stared at it.

Dinner?!

He closed and opened his hands. The meal was a terrible sentence. Had he lost so much time? No pattern; and no time, either. He ate—only because it would not advance the First Family if he fainted in the Round of Four. He bathed. Dressed, hands shaking on his buttons. Circled five times before he dared step out, blind to the pattern and unable to see the line beneath his feet.

Father didn’t seem angry anymore, only tired. Nekantor walked, Father and Sorn on his left, Karyas on his right, out to the cabinet meeting room.

“Nekantor,” Father said. “The discussion will be about policy, so don’t try too hard.”

Nekantor looked at him. Father was pulling at his chin, while Sorn stood expressionless. “Father,” he began. I made a mistake. Help me see the pattern. The words choked him, and he couldn’t get them out. “This is my topic. Kinders fever—they chose it because of me.”

Father frowned and pulled him down by the arm, wheezing in his ear. “I mean it. Don’t try to look better than Innis; he’s twice your age and he’ll make you look like a fool if you do. Let your youth protect you.”

Nekantor shuddered. “Don’t touch me, Father.”

Now there were people. Cabinet Secretary Boros was coming down the hall, with Menni and an entourage of Second Family bodyguards and cousins. From the other side came Gowan with his Ninth Family crowd, and Innis, who walked commandingly—nose first—only his Imbati and Arissen bodyguards following him. Four candidates, four camps. Soon the game would be engaged. I made a mistake. His chest twisted; he listened for the rumors that would destroy him.

“I’ll see you inside,” Father said. “Remember, this is for the First Family. Don’t make a mistake.” Leaving their servants behind, he and Boros walked ahead into the meeting room.

Too late: the mistake was already made. Nekantor straightened his sleeves, his vest, brushing away Father’s fingerprints. He combed the surrounding talk for names. Garr—Erex—those names were everywhere, so ripples were indeed spreading. His stomach clenched, and his ears burned, searching for his own name, or Benél’s. Nothing yet, nothing yet . . .

Down the hall beyond Menni there was movement, and the camps broke and swirled; sounds of a struggle. That couldn’t be part of the pattern. Nekantor stopped breathing and pressed his back to the wall, but it was not stable enough. Not chaos—not now! Arissen Karyas stepped in front of him and drew her weapon. Nekantor stared at his watch.

“You’re killing yourselves, and you don’t see it!” a voice shrieked. “You tie our hands, and you’re all going to die! You—” It cut off abruptly. The hum of talk swelled in the corridor; everyone was moving now, talking.

An assassin? An assassin had made it this far into the Residence?

The sweeping second hand lost its power. The wall was shifting, chaos creeping . . . Nekantor shut his eyes, clenched his fists. Tried to breathe.

Arissen Karyas’ voice whispered in his ear. “You’re safe, sir. That was your move.”

His move?

A piece of the pattern appeared beneath his feet. Yes, he’d asked Karyas to arrange Kartunnen infiltrators. His infiltrator had been the one screaming threats.

He was safe. And he could see—only his own line, and only the smallest distance before his feet, but enough.

Nekantor opened his eyes. Before him, the cabinet meeting room door opened, and the Eminence’s manservant beckoned. He walked forward on the spindly line, leaving Karyas behind. One step, another, into the windowless stone room. The Eminences, the greatest faces of the Race, looked down on him, and he found the Great Grobal Fyn in his extravagant, heavy wooden frame. Father of them all, but of the First Family first—that ancient, noble gaze felt like power. Courage rose into Nekantor’s heart, pounding with the blood of powerful men. He smiled. There was a number one on the floor, and he stood upon it, watched Menni taking the place beside him, and then Innis, and then Gowan, across the head of the brass table. Each one brought with him another glimpse of the game.

The cabinet members watched them from the comfort of silk cushions arranged in high-backed brass chairs, just as they had in the Round of Eight questioning. A face to a vote: there was Father, breathing hard in excitement while Doret of the Eleventh Family watched him anxiously; Fedron with his hands clasped; Selemei cold and closed-faced and female. The Third Family’s member, Palimeyn, seemed more nervous than last time, glancing again and again at Herin, who sat like a perfect statue behind the Fourth and Seventh Family’s members at the foot of the table. Bald Secretary Boros was smiling. Caredes of the Eighth Family watched him with the staring eyes of a fish. Gowan’s father Amyel leaned head-to-head with the Tenth Family’s member, keeping generous eyes for his own son. The Sixth Family’s member, Arith, was the one whose vote he should have won, but hadn’t; he and Ethor of the Twelfth Family sat with the two Fifth Family members, staring at him with disdain. There would be no convincing them.

You don’t need them all, Benél had said. Just enough.

“Welcome again, candidates,” said Herin, rising from his chair. “Today we will hear your opinions on the question of Kinders fever, and the role of the Kartunnen in preserving the health of the Grobal Race.”

Nekantor rubbed his thumbs across his knuckles. He had information on the epidemic, but only from two days ago. No chance to learn more now—

“The first to speak today shall be the last,” Herin said. “Gowan of the Ninth Family, your statement.”

Gowan looked startled. “Thank you, sir. With twenty-eight dead of Kinders fever in the past week, I believe we all agree on the magnitude of the problem.”

Twenty-eight, not twenty-five. Herin had tried to damage him, letting Gowan go first—and yet, that had helped him. The Eminence was not above his own mistakes.

“Our health is the greatest challenge facing the Race today,” Gowan continued. “We need a new approach to the quality of our care. I therefore propose that we allow the Kartunnen to be better informed about our health needs: we must institute a petition process, by means of which doctors can access the health records of their patients.”

“What?” Caredes demanded.

Nekantor turned and stared. Gowan wanted to give Kartunnen more power?

Gowan straightened defiantly. “It’s simple,” he said. “Doctors can do a better job if they tailor treatment to our specific needs. The petitions can be written in such a way as to bind doctors to confidentiality.”

Innis of the Fifth Family considered Gowan down his nose. “The problem, Gowan, is that Kartunnen aren’t like Imbati. We can’t be certain they won’t just turn around and expose our failings to our enemies.”

“Kartunnen have their own honor,” said Gowan. “They keep oaths of confidentiality to their Lower patients.”

Ridiculous. “We’re nothing like their Lower patients,” Nekantor scoffed. “Lowers don’t die of Kinders fever.”

“They do, Nekantor,” Menni objected.

Nekantor shrugged. “Fine, one or two do, but mostly they suffer a bit and then survive.”

“We’re not disputing medical facts,” Menni said. “Innis, what if the information could be handled appropriately? If a petition system were modified, say, to assign doctors to each Great Family, so no doctor could accidentally divulge anything across Family borders?”

“You’re missing my point,” said Innis. “The risk is entirely unnecessary. What we really need here is to hold the Kartunnen responsible for the care they provide. Doctors who care for the Race must be the very best. If anything, we should institute a testing system, to separate mere practitioners from the ones truly endowed with Heile’s healing gifts; only those should be the ones licensed to care for us.”

A small gap of silence opened, a split second of no argument. Time for the move he and Arissen Karyas had planned; with most of the pattern still invisible, it was a step into the dark, but there was no time for doubt.

“You’re all talking about how the Kartunnen should heal us,” Nekantor said. “No one has yet mentioned how they hurt us. Kartunnen contact was the cause of this epidemic, and since then there have been no fewer than three direct attempts by Kartunnen to interfere with the process of Heir Selection.”

“‘Interfere with Heir Selection’?” Innis said. “That’s an overstatement, Nekantor. They’re nothing but Kartunnen troublemakers, responding to our close scrutiny.”

“Perhaps,” Nekantor said. “But remember, these are Kartunnen we’re talking about. A revolution coming from Arissen would be an armed rebellion—easy to recognize. Have none of you considered the possibility that we may be seeing the Kartunnen version of it? A successful coup at the top, followed by attempts to influence our choice of leadership to their advantage?”

He’d surprised them. They were all staring now: Father, Herin, all the faces in the cabinet, all the candidates, too. Look at Gowan and Menni’s shock—and Innis, who was calmer, but whose eyes glittered with frustration. Nekantor kept his breath slow, held his hands still. He’d come this far; whatever happened, he must not let their reaction destroy him.

The cabinet members dissolved into loud argument—too fast, too fluid to follow any pattern. After a few moments, Nekantor had to look away to keep chaos from seizing his nerves; he turned his eyes on the Great Grobal Fyn, while still the chatter and growl tumbled into his ears. It seemed forever before the noise diminished; Nekantor glanced down and found the Eminence’s manservant walking quietly around the circle, entering votes into his ordinating machine.

At last, he came to the front corner of the table. “The results of the voting,” he intoned. “To Grobal Nekantor of the First Family, four votes.”

Four. Only four! So Father had failed to win any alliance with the Tenth Family . . . Nekantor’s stomach tightened, and he clenched his fists.

“To Grobal Menni of the Second Family, two votes.”

That was Menni down. But there were too many votes left. Ten votes, and if they were split—no, Erex must not win! The filthy Lower-lover mustn’t drag him down, too . . .

“To Grobal Innis of the Fifth Family, seven votes.”

An exhalation ran around the table. Nekantor counted, counted again. Innis had claimed so many, which meant—

“To Grobal Gowan of the Ninth Family, three votes.” The Imbati paused in silence for a moment. “The First Family and the Fifth Family shall advance to the Final Round.”

Saved—by Innis?! Nekantor gulped a breath as the tension broke; he looked down at his watch with his heart pounding. Just in time: the cabinet members surged from their seats, swirling into Family camps. Bodies came close around him, but his heart still raced too fast, and his throat clamped tight. He didn’t dare look up.

“Well, son . . .” Father’s heavy hand landed on his right shoulder. “Looks like you’re still alive for the next round.”

Nekantor risked a glance up. Fedron was grinning at him; Selemei watched him with a faint and maddeningly feminine smile. At his left, Doret let out a short bark of a laugh. “Gods, I need a drink! But that’s over, so no more assassinations.”

Fedron nodded. “Only one Selection murder—I’ll drink to that.”

“Thank Heile no one else has to die,” said Selemei quietly.

But this game had not been won. Innis of the Fifth Family had taken too many votes. To stand at the center, he’d have to take all the rest, every single one. How could he possibly do that?

“Father,” Nekantor forced out. “I made mistakes in this round. I’m sorry—I need your help if I’m going to win.”

Father pulled him by the arm. Nekantor leaned forward to listen, but Father only clutched tighter, pulled harder, harder, hurting his arm. Oh, gods, what in Varin’s name did he want? Revulsion spasmed through him; he screamed and jerked backward.

Father collapsed facedown onto the floor.