CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Benél

The Ninth Family’s servant offered Nekantor a drink.

The liquid whispered to him: poison, poison.

Nekantor kept breathing. Clear glass; its pale, bubbly contents were probably apple yezel, but his chest felt tight. He needed to count. He couldn’t count, with Gowan and his father watching. He imagined buttons in his mind: one, two, three. One, two, three. It wasn’t the same. His fingers itched.

Arissen Karyas leaned to his ear. “Shall I taste it, sir?”

Nekantor shook his head. Karyas was too valuable to risk.

He could do this by himself. Holding the glass wouldn’t hurt him, anyway—it was easy on the eye, cooling on the mind. He took the drink from the Imbati’s hand, and his fingers didn’t even shake. Clear, smooth crystal. The urge to count diminished.

I can do this by myself. Three more hours, and the game will be over. The First Family can still win.

“Father,” said Gowan, “I don’t know why you’re listening to him.”

Amyel turned to his son. Nekantor pretended to sip his drink. Sweet scent touched his nostrils, and the glass remained perfectly full, and he remained perfectly safe. See? He could do this without Father. He needed all the votes.

“Honestly, Gowan,” said Amyel, “I don’t know who else you’d expect to argue the First Family’s case at this point.”

“Tagaret said—”

“That’s not his role,” said Amyel. “The final round is where the really difficult decisions get made. I can understand you’d prefer Tagaret to be here; he’s your friend. I have to bear in mind our history with the Fifth Family.”

Gnash Gowan for his interference. Nekantor wanted to slap that look off his too-handsome face. Instead, he considered his drink—ah yes, pure crystal. The next move drifted up with the tiny bubbles. “Gowan, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you can see why I had to argue against you. That’s what Heir Selection is like. Now that we’re no longer rivals, I want to honor our Families’ history of alliances.”

“Alliances that Innis will bear in mind if the Fifth Family wins,” Amyel added.

That was better; Amyel was the vote he needed anyway, not Gowan. But if Gowan could be softened, he might be useful later. Father had been stupid to try to kill him. If only he’d killed Innis, then all this fawning would be unnecessary.

Nekantor smiled. “Gowan, I hope you aren’t holding our Aloran’s improprieties against him.”

Gowan glared. “Not his.”

“We honor Aloran for his actions,” said Amyel. “Please also thank your cousin Pyaras for helping to resolve the matter.”

Bang-bang-bang!

Nekantor jumped. Liquid splashed over his fingers. Karyas quickly plucked the glass from his hand.

Poison . . .

Nekantor wiped his fingers with a handkerchief. This was apple yezel, not poison. And even if it was poison, it couldn’t kill him—there were no contact poisons that could be put into a drink. He was safe. He had to be safe! He wiped his fingers again, one by one.

“Aaahmyel!” A voice boomed, as loud as the fist had been on the bronze door. The Ninth Family’s vestibule curtain whipped aside and Cabinet Secretary Boros burst in, with his manservant behind him. “News, news! Have you heard?”

“Um, shouldn’t we speak in private?” asked Amyel.

“Ah, yes, you have a guest!” Boros laughed, loud enough to echo. “No need—the news is everywhere. Innis of the Fifth Family is in a rage. He’s cut off negotiations with the Sixth Family!”

The Sixth Family? Nekantor stiffened against the echoes, fisted his contaminated hand and hid it in his pocket. His chest twisted, but he couldn’t run out. He had to hear about the Sixth Family, not to mention keep the Ninth Family’s vote, and impress Boros if he could. He needed all the votes. He pressed a question between his teeth. “Why?”

“What happened?” Gowan asked.

“This very night,” the Secretary made a flourish with his hands, “Innis’ betrothed has been despoiled.”

Amyel grunted. “What did she do?”

Secretary Boros frowned. “Nothing, so far as we can tell. Her house was broken into and her bodyguard ambushed . . . you can guess the rest.”

Sex, behind a locked door. The thought sent a shiver down Nekantor’s back. Gods, how he wanted Benél. There must be a way to keep the perfection secret, even now; he could play games as well as anyone. He had to get out of here—but not yet, not yet. A few more moves. He could do this by himself; he had to do this by himself!

“Has anyone been arrested, sir?” he asked.

“Not so far.” Boros shrugged. “The manservant involved was clearly experienced. And as the obvious motive is political sabotage, the list of suspects is long.”

Gowan muttered. “Varin’s teeth—Tagaret’s going to be pretty upset.”

Tagaret? Yes, that was it—the move that would allow him to escape. “If you’ll excuse me, maybe I’d better go break the news to my brother,” Nekantor said. “He was rather an admirer of that young Lady.”

Secretary Boros shrugged. “He probably already knows. Good luck to you, young Nekantor.”

“Thank you for coming to speak with us,” said Amyel.

Don’t scream. Don’t run. Nekantor breathed tightly, but managed to bow. “Thank you, sir.” He clenched his teeth and walked, step, step, step, through the vestibule and out into the main hall.

“Home,” he snapped at Karyas.

“Yes, sir.”

There were people in the hall; he shouldn’t run, but he ran anyway. Slapped the door lock with his left hand, ran straight to his rooms and stripped down to nothing. He poured hot water over his body, over his right hand. Washed it, and washed it again—the liquid had been on too long, and would not be entirely expunged. Benél, where was Benél? But there was no time for secrecy, for perfection; not if he wanted to reach the Sixth Family and make a deal. He dried his body, but the hand resisted. He washed it again, and again—finally fumbled his cabinet open, took a bottle of cleaning alcohol and poured it over his red, shaking fingers.

He hissed in pain, but finally the last traces of the awful liquid burned away.

Carefully now. Nekantor dressed: eleven buttons, each touched in order with his sore fingers. That was better. He moved into the circle, touching and checking. Yes, better and better. This game was almost over.

He still couldn’t see the whole vision in his mind.

But he wouldn’t ask for help; Father couldn’t help now, anyway. He had to do this by himself. All the dancing lines had been cut off, all but two—so close to the center, did he really need to see it all? He could do this by himself, so long as he could see the very next move, the move right before his feet.

Innis’ loss was his gain. Innis had broken off with the Sixth Family, and that meant the Sixth Family’s vote was back in play.

Nekantor went to his bedroom door. “Karyas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take me to the suite of cabinet member Arith of the Sixth Family.”

She nodded. “And your brother, sir?”

“Forget him.” A delay with Tagaret’s whining might lose him the opportunity completely.

“Yes, sir.”

Karyas was a good Arissen and knew precisely where to take him; the Sixth Family’s cabinet member also had a suite on the first floor. Nekantor counted paces. Fifty, fifty-five . . .

Wait—there was Benél’s door.

At once, he thirsted desperately for perfection. Nekantor shivered, and his hand lifted to his vest buttons, one-two-three, remembering how they came undone.

But there was no time. Karyas walked past the door, and he had to follow.

“Nek?”

Benél’s voice, behind him. Nekantor turned around. Benél was here. Benél was strong, and he had power. “I’m on my way to see Arith of the Sixth Family,” Nekantor said. “Want to come?”

Benél should have smiled. Benél always loved when they played the game together—but he didn’t smile now. “Nek, I need to talk to you,” he said.

“No problem.” Probably Benél’s mother was after him again, or his father, and he needed something explained to him. “Except I have to speak to Arith first.”

Two doors ahead, Karyas was already knocking. Nekantor ran to catch up, faced the door, straightened his vest and his sleeves, and touched his buttons. Sent a wink over his shoulder at Benél. Benél’s eyes widened.

An Imbati woman opened the door. “Sir?”

Nekantor nodded to her. “I am Nekantor of the First Family,” he said. “May I please speak to Arith of the Sixth Family?”

“If you would wait inside, please, sir.”

He walked in. The vestibule curtain was blue; in Amyel’s suite it had been brown, and in his own, green. He waited, eyes on the second hand of his watch. Finally, the Imbati returned.

“If you would come with me, please, sir.”

Nekantor walked into the Sixth Family’s sitting room. This house didn’t look like a muckwalker’s house; it was just like his, with every wall in exactly the right place. Arith of the Sixth Family was waiting for him with an Imbati woman behind his shoulder. He looked as defensive as a tunnel-hound before its den. His long, thinning red hair hung down to his cabinet pin. He hadn’t been nervous in the cabinet question sessions, but today his hands were twitching; the recent news must have shaken him.

So much the better.

“You wished to see me, young Nekantor?” Arith asked. He didn’t ask for Father.

Time for the sympathy move.

“Yes, sir,” Nekantor said. “I wanted to reach out as soon as I heard. I can’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have an alliance come to nothing so close to the final round.”

Arith crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want, First Family?”

Nekantor took a deep breath. Arith was weak; if this had been Doross, the Arbiter of the Sixth Family Council, there would have been sparring, posturing, a game within a game even to get to the point where one might do business. “Sir,” he said with sympathy, “I don’t imagine you’d still wish to support Innis when he blames you for your own misfortune.”

“You think Innis blames me?” Arith laughed bitterly. “Not at all; he blames Lady Della, and deservedly so. She’s proven herself a harlot.”

Tagaret, and a harlot—he almost laughed, but managed to cough instead. “I know someone who values her rather more than that.”

“You could have had her,” Arith said. “Then it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“And if I were to have her now, sir?”

Arith’s eyes went wide. “You mock me!” he snapped. “You’d look like a fool. It would only prove you had no serious interest in being Heir.”

Nekantor pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, sir, of course—except that I don’t mock you at all. I’ve never had any interest in the girl.”

“What—”

He pushed onward. “My brother, though—you should see how he sighs over her! He’s devastated at the thought of her disgrace. He’s always known he had no chance at a partnership, but he’s never been quite sane about her—in fact, I’d wager he might even overlook a bit of harlotry.”

Arith was staring. “Your own brother? You must be crazy—Tagaret of the First Family would never consent to be so compromised!”

What, did he think Tagaret was too strong to take the girl? Gnash him—there had to be a way to get him to accept the move. Tagaret was weak enough! Nekantor took a deep breath. What did he need to do? What was the next move?

Ah, yes.

“All right,” he said, and sighed. “I should have realized you were too smart for me, sir. I confess—Tagaret doesn’t know I’m here.”

Arith’s eyes narrowed. “Young Nekantor, what do you mean by that?”

“Precisely what I said, sir. I came to see you without discussing the offer with him. But that doesn’t mean we have no opportunity here. The Sixth Family can’t rely on the Fifth to keep its word. I’m here to tell you that the First Family won’t treat you so lightly. It’s not a direct alliance with the Heir; that’s true. But an alliance with the First Family is a thing of value nonetheless, and I don’t need to wait for a victory. If you could see my brother’s jealous agonies you’d understand—he would be willing to take Lady Della for partner today, in whatever condition.”

Arith spluttered, “Even carrying another man’s child?”

“Well . . .” Nekantor couldn’t help a slight smirk. “Partner them fast enough, and perhaps he won’t notice the difference. The Race will prosper either way.”

Arith stared at him, one second . . . two . . . three . . . and then the corners of his mouth sneaked up. “You’re a practical man, young Nekantor.”

Nekantor gave a bow. “I believe it’s necessary in times like these, sir. May I consider us agreed, then?”

“Yes.”

Behind Arith’s shoulder, his Imbati woman bowed. “Witnessed.”

“Seconded,” said Arissen Karyas.

He couldn’t wait to tell Benél.

Nekantor walked out into the hall, hoarding a smile. Benél hadn’t gone back in but was standing and waiting for him. Nekantor walked to a careful distance and spoke softly.

“Wonderful news, Benél. I’ve got the Sixth Family’s vote.”

“Wow.” Benél’s answer sounded wrong—uneven and breathy.

“I’m giving Tagaret to that girl.”

“What?” Benél exclaimed. “The used girl?”

That sounded more like him. Nekantor laughed. “Yes.”

But Benél didn’t laugh along. He made a face like pain. “Nek, I need to talk to you.”

“I know. I don’t have a lot of time, or I’d—”

“Just come in for a second.”

Strange. Nekantor narrowed his eyes. It was strange, and wrong, but this was Benél. And if he could have a moment—a kiss, a touch—Benél could make anything right. He scanned the hall for watchers, then followed Benél inside. Even unseen in the vestibule, Benél didn’t reach for his neck. He breathed like tears, or anger.

Wrong, wrong: someone had done something to him.

“Who’s hurt you?” Nekantor asked. “Is it Yril again? If he’s done anything to you, don’t worry. We’ll crush him.”

“Gnash it, Nekantor!” Benél shouted.

Oh, feel the power in that shout! For a split second, pure pleasure vibrated through him—but there was also something else in the sound, something that sent cold fear creeping up his nerves. He held very still.

“Nekantor,” Benél said. “I can’t—see you anymore.”

“Of course you can,” Nekantor said. “You know how to keep secrets, Benél.”

“No. Nek, I can’t—I won’t—see you.”

Nekantor stared at him. This was all wrong. It couldn’t be true, it was a lie—no, it was a mistake. Benél was powerful, but he made mistakes when he didn’t have things explained to him. “You don’t mean that,” Nekantor said. “We’re the Twins, you said so.”

Benél raised his fist.

Nekantor gasped and closed his eyes, shivering, waiting for it.

Benél didn’t strike. “They told me,” he growled. “Varin’s teeth, Nekantor, they told me what’s really wrong with you—you can’t fool me anymore.”

Nekantor opened his eyes. “Wrong with me?” he demanded. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Benél’s gaze was accusing. “You’re lying. You’re—you’re twisted in the head.”

“Benél—someone’s been lying to you, but it’s not me. I’m the only one who sees things as they are! You’ve told me so yourself!”

Benél gulped. “I was wrong.”

Nekantor grabbed him by the shirt. “Who told you these lies? We’re on the same side, Benél—the First Family stands together against enemies. You have to tell me!”

Benél looked away to one side. “Just a note,” he muttered. “Household.”

Yril—it had to be Yril; Yril had always wanted his place by Benél’s side. But Yril would never win perfection. Nekantor’s heart pounded. His nerves hurt, all the way into his fingers, still tangled in Benél’s silk shirt. He tightened his fists, pulled Benél close. “Benél,” he whispered. “Kiss me.”

“No.”

“They’re lying,” Nekantor hissed. “They’re wrong, Benél. I’m yours—you know me!”

Benél dragged a choking breath. “I do know you,” he said. “You should go.”

“Benél!”

But Benél ran out of the vestibule, deeper into the house. Nekantor stood shaking, trying to breathe. Without Benél, this was a horrible place, a border place where Lowers moved, and no place for gentlemen. The curtain ahead was restless with Benél’s passing, and then the curtain on his left moved, and an Imbati was going to come out—

Nekantor ran. He fled down the hall, slapped the entry pad and ran into his rooms, but his bed loomed ahead, confronting him, whispering of sex. Benél, Benél! Benél grabbing him, kissing him, throwing him down—Benél crushing him, penetrating him, erasing every thought—

“No!” he screamed. “No!” No more perfection, and the Selection was coming fast—Plis’ bones, the eyes, the whispers! He had to have all the votes, and he didn’t have all the votes, or did he?

Every particle of him screamed for perfection, but Benél was gone. He couldn’t see the game, and where was Father? In the Heile-forsaken medical center with traitor doctors who wouldn’t heal him enough to let him play—

His chest squeezed tighter, tighter. Breath felt hot, and the room contracted. It was too tight in here—he slammed his fists against the inside of the door, over and over until they went numb. He needed Father—he needed Benél—

“No!” he screamed, “I can do this by myself!”

He fumbled a wire from his drawer, flung his door open, and ran to Father’s office. When the lock clicked open, he stepped inside—tried to find knowledge and a sense of pattern, tried to see Father sitting at his desk chuckling, full of plans and confidence.

But it meant nothing. Father had never seen the whole game, and now the chair was empty, the desk a riot of papers, nothing pointing anywhere or making any sense. Nekantor seized the papers in his fists. He tore them—gods, it felt good! He seized more, more, and tore them into pieces, tiny shreds that no longer wanted to be straight because there was no more edge to obligate them. The floor filled with paper, and his fingers discovered a long, sharp letter-opener. Just what he needed—he wheeled toward the couch. Gnash the thing, it had never belonged! It had encroached here, encroached on Father, taking him slowly from underneath and ruining his mind and body. He stabbed it, ripped at it until the letter-opener bent, flung his weapon aside and dug his fingers into the openings, tearing them outward. The frame groaned and the rumpled sheet screamed and died; the pillows gave up their guts and feathers floated in the air until everything whirled in a white fury.

“I don’t need you,” Nekantor panted. “I don’t need you!” A feather caught in his mouth and choked him, so he stumbled out again into the sitting room.

He knew where he had to go next: Tagaret’s locked door. Even now he could feel it—those hooks were old, old, and that place never stopped mocking, every time he walked by. His blood raced madly, and his body shook. Now was the time. The door would submit, now that Father could not stop him.

He shoved through the double doors into the drawing room and went straight to the geode in the corner. It was heavy, unwieldy, but there was nothing better. This time it would work, even if he had to break the door down. Tagaret would finally realize there was no use in trying to keep his secret games.

Nekantor turned around. And growled.

Tagaret’s door was open.

The one time he needed it to be locked, it was open, and Imbati Aloran was standing in front of it.

“Gnash you, Imbati,” Nekantor shouted. “What in Varin’s name are you doing?”

Imbati Aloran turned around. “Young Master,” he said, “Pardon me. I came to speak with your brother.”

Look at him: the Imbati who played games. He was playing one even now, or why would he be blushing? Why would his eyes be white with fear?

Nekantor dropped the geode and strode over. “What are you hiding, Imbati Aloran? What’s your game?”

The frightened Imbati bowed low. “My apologies, young Master.”

“Ha!” Nekantor said. “Deflections, always the deflections! You will tell me.”

Tagaret appeared in the door. “What are you doing, Nek? Leave him alone. Mother sent him to talk to me, that’s all.”

“About what, exactly?” Nekantor demanded. “It’s wrong, I tell you. He’s an Imbati, he doesn’t just get to talk to you, it’s not his place! Imbati, when are you going to learn?”

“Nek, stop,” Tagaret said. “Why are you doing this? What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong!” Nekantor screamed. Benél’s staring eyes—I know what’s wrong with you . . . He panted, clenched his fists. “Nothing wrong at all. Nothing, except that my brother is an idiot and my servants aren’t obedient enough. Imbati, come with me.”

“Nek—”

“Give him to me, gnash it, or I’ll slap him!”

Tagaret stared with his mouth open. No words, no power. Nekantor pointed the Imbati down the hall toward his room. Slowly, too slowly, the Imbati turned and began to walk down the hall.

“I know what you’re up to,” Nekantor sneered. “I see your game. It shows in every step you take.” He could play games better than any Imbati.

“Young Master, I don’t know how I have offended you—”

“In!”

“Please allow me to make amends—”

“Get inside, now!”

The Imbati opened the door of his room and walked in, then turned and made a deep bow. More disguised defiance. Nekantor pushed his shoulder—hard—but he didn’t even have the decency to fall down.

“Down!” Nekantor shrieked.

Imbati Aloran got on his knees and put his marked forehead on the floor. Yes, that was wonderful. Probably thought he was safe, the proud little Lower, that deference would make him untouchable.

He would soon know better.