Inheritors of Power

Book 3: The Broken Trust

by Juliette Wade

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi

Synopsis

The third book of The Broken Trust continues an epic struggle for power, kindled in the hearts of two brothers, as it spreads to crack the foundations of their underground society.

Many years have passed since the Eminence Nekantor and Heir Adon seized power, and life in Pelismara has found a fragile equilibrium under Nekantor’s thumb. Now the Imbati Service Academy suspects that Xinta, Manservant to the Eminence, may have taken control of Nekantor for his own sinister purposes, endangering what peace still remains. Imbati Catín, an Academy prodigy, vows service to Adon, balancing two core purposes — to advance her Master's designs on power, and to determine the full extent of Xinta's influence.

When a trash hauler named Akrabitti Corbinan walks into a place he doesn’t belong, everything falls out of balance. Catín, who is investigating this newly discovered hidden library, immediately arrests Corbinan for trespassing. Nekantor then seizes Corbinan, believing he's a spy who sought to topple the government, and Xinta vanishes him before Catín can determine his intent. What was Corbinan really seeking? What dangerous information does the library contain, that Xinta might seek to control? And what might happen if someone more dangerous finds Corbinan first?

Release date: February 22, 2022

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

Chapter One

Certified

At age twelve, Imbati Catín had secretly sworn she'd be the one to crack the Heir—an ambition so presumptuous she didn't even tell her mother. The Heir, Grobal Adon of the First Family, had been twenty-two at that time, tall and dark-haired with a ready smile, and so well-dressed that his every style innovation swept across the noblemen of the Pelismara Society. Members of the Imbati servant caste knew to be careful around him, because he had a talent for reading servants' faces. He was a regular topic of concern when her mother and the other Masters of the Imbati Service Academy dined together, because he was the only nobleman in all Varin who regularly interviewed Academy students, but never hired a single one.

Once, when she was fifteen, holding her breath outside the bronze door of her mother's office, she'd heard her tell a senior student, "Grobal Adon's first and only manservant, Dexelin, died by suicide." It seemed obvious that a Master who knew how to read his servant's face would also understand the Imbati's fundamental vocation, and the exhortation Imbati, love where you serve. She concluded that the Heir and his Dexelin had loved each other as was proper, and that meant the Heir would have been devastated by his loss, which would explain why he'd never attempted to find such a relationship again.

Her classmates in the gentleman's training were more cynical. They argued that the Grobal nobility had grown toxic in its inbred decline, and that therefore the Heir was responsible for his Dexelin's suicide; they called her speculations sentimental. Their belief in the Heir's evils hadn't stopped them trying to impress him, however, and every year Master Arkad, who taught Details, invited his senior classes to try to figure him out. "Observe him. Notice everything. The answers will be there." He always sounded so certain—and no one had sharper eyes than Arkad—but if he knew the answers himself, he kept them deep inside his heart. The Heir remained alone.

Her own senior year with Master Arkad had come when the Heir turned twenty-nine. Catín received special permission from the Household Director to take messages that allowed her to cross the Heir's path and observe. She also got the Director's help to arrange an interview with a minor member of the team responsible for maintaining the Heir's suite. She wrote up the results of her research in a paper suggesting, among other things, that the Heir hated and feared his older brother, the Eminence Nekantor, and that his ready smile hid loneliness and loss. Master Arkad had praised her for attempting to see the Heir as a person, and had been one of six Masters who recommended her for certification.

Then, yesterday, Grobal Adon of the First Family had inquired after her, requesting an interview. She almost wished he'd done it before she'd had to turn in her paper—but of course she consented to be reviewed. A paper was only an assignment; the true puzzle was the man.

She came into the interview resolved to see him as a person, but maintaining sufficient energy and concentration made her feel like she was floating outside her own body. Face to face, the Heir was strange, nervous—meeting her eyes often, as other nobles never had, and obviously engaged in some internal struggle. Though his manner was polite, his expressions were complex. And trying to solve him like a puzzle, and answer his questions at the same time, made seeing him as a person . . . quite a challenge.

There was only one possible solution to untangle the layers of detail in her head. The moment she got back to the Academy she sat down at the steel desk in her mother's office and spent over an hour writing down copious notes on everything she could remember, as if she still had Master Arkad looking over her shoulder.

At last, the fruits of her labors were arrayed in front of her, and a suspicion had snagged in her mind. If she'd put this in her Details paper, no one would have believed it.

"I got you," she whispered. "I think." She flipped through her notes, re-checking the two critical moments.

The Heir asks, "Are you ready to face Arissen weapons?" I begin an answer but he interrupts, "I mean, describe how—" He quickly cuts himself off. As he does this, a flush rises from his neck to his cheeks; he looks at his hands and then to the wall on my right. "Sorry."

The Heir says, "It's possible that my brother Nekantor would threaten you in order to influence me." Two-second pause. "The Eminence. You know." He looks at a painting of the city of Selimna on my left, and then casts his glance down to where the stone wall meets the floor. "He's dangerous, and so is his manservant, Xinta." Short exhalation. "You probably know that already."

Once, she'd have called a coincidence. Twice, though? The Heir's eyes had moved in ways she recognized—patterns from the Imbati code of gaze gestures. Down-left was the apology code, which he had followed immediately by saying sorry. Right-down was the code for discomfort, and she didn't know a single person who didn't feel discomfort talking about the Eminence Nekantor.

Catín's skin prickled all down her arms; she clasped her hands and knees together in excitement. No; calm. She began a measured breath pattern. Who would believe this? She had to tell—

Her mother walked in the door, the movements of her feet swirling through her black tillik-silk dress, the manservant's lily crest tattoo across her forehead set in a stern expression.

"Mother," Catín said, "I've—"

"Tell me," her mother cut her off. "Is it possible for a manservant to control her master? To rule?"

The questions were an attack. Catín's heart raced, and her fingers twitched to hide her interview notes. No; calm. She resumed her breath pattern. This wasn't Mother asking, clearly. It was Master Katella, Hands Master of the Imbati Service Academy, in whose office she now sat.

"No," she answered. "The role of a gentleman's servant is to advise, to guide. I provide the information my Master requires in order to make an optimal decision."

Master Katella's dark eyes narrowed. "Don't think Household Director Samirya hasn't heard you talking while on duty."

Oh—was that what she meant? "That's not serious," Catín said. "That's just—I have a new friend in the messenger corps. We joke, that's all."

Mother sniffed disapproval of her choice of subjects for humor, then lashed out with another question. "Why did you consent to be interviewed by a man whose last servant is known to have taken his own life?"

"The Heir was a child when his Dexelin died," Catín said. "Many things can change in seventeen years."

"Yet, in seventeen years, Grobal Adon of the First Family has not hired a single one of the servants he has interviewed. What made you think he was worth your efforts?"

You and the other Masters asked me to figure him out. But that answer would sound presumptuous. She tried a more academic approach.

"The nation of Varin is in trouble," she said. "Every one of the Masters has agreed on that point within my hearing. The Eminence Nekantor is unstable. He has hired and fired twenty-nine manservants since his accession. The Heir, meanwhile, has had no Imbati guidance at all. Our government has been careening through cave tunnels without light. Someone must put a stop to it."

"Interesting," said Master Katella. A hint of anticipation had crept into her voice, but she lashed out again. "What about the Eminence Nekantor's Xinta, then? Do you discount him?"

She'd be a fool to discount the only manservant who had managed to stay in the Eminence's service. She'd had several opportunities to deliver messages to the Eminence's Household team, but had only twice laid eyes on Nekantor's Xinta, the man himself. He was totally intimidating. Not because of age or stature—he was only five years older than she was, and four inches shorter—but because of his face. Academy students learned calm as a skill, and most people maintained their composure with a degree of subtle expression, but Xinta's pale face was like a mask. The memory of him looking up at her sent a chill down her spine.

"Not at all, Mother," she said. "If anything, he proves my point. From the moment one of us was able to endure the Eminence Nekantor, everything changed. Nekantor's Xinta has prevented much suffering and loss. Imbati influence leads to stability."

Why was Mother questioning her like this? Catín studied her mother's face, as Master Arkad had taught her. Subtle lines around Mother's eyes and mouth suggested pride. Mother's hands hung at her sides, but one of them was slightly tensed, as though ready to move.

No way. Hand of Sirin . . .

Catín's mouth went dry. Excited or not, though, she wouldn't be rude enough to ask. "Nekantor's Xinta shouldn't be alone in his task," she said cautiously. "If the Heir ever actually hired someone, he wouldn't be."

Now Mother smiled—a proud, private smile that showed the tips of her white teeth. "Good news, baby mine." She held out her hand, palm-upward: the invitation to touch.

Catín leapt to her feet, mouth open, and pressed her palm to her mother's.

Master Katella dropped her hand back to her side and spoke with great solemnity. "I call out Catín, to be Marked Adon's Catín of the Household of the First Family."

"Oh, Mother . . ." Catín breathed. Really? Really—Adon's Catín—! Then she remembered herself and bowed. "Thank you, Master Katella."

Someone knocked five times, rhythmically, on the office door.

Mother froze. Then she drew a cloth from her pocket and held it out. "Wash your face for the Artist, please," she said. "I have to answer this."

Masters' business, surely. Catín took the cold cloth and pressed it hard to the space between her eyebrows. When she pulled it away again, it was stained with the black cosmetic of the Imbati child's mark. She had painted it on every morning but would never need to again. She folded the pigment inside the cloth and pressed it to her skin a second time.

Master Katella stepped out the cast bronze door into the hallway. A brief glimpse past her showed the white-haired Headmaster of the Academy, Moruvia, with Details Master Arkad, and the edge of a golden hand that might have belonged to Household Director Samirya. Then the door shut again.

Catín frowned. Something must have happened. Something important enough that the Headmaster would interrupt Hands Master Katella in the midst of a call-out—also, something that was not public information, or they would be speaking here in front of her.

She inhaled, exhaled, and let it go. Whatever this business was, when it became public, she would know. For now, she needed a naked face. She wiped over and over until the cloth came away clean.

A few seconds later, Mother stepped back in. "Sorry about that. I believe I had just called you out."

Catín nodded.

"Before we go to your appointment with the Artist, there's something I must ask you."

Must ask—that sounded very serious. "You may, of course."

Her mother nodded. "I can see you understand that the position you are entering is absolutely critical for the stability of Varin. Would you be willing to swear, for the sake of Grobal and Imbati lives at risk, to reserve a place in your heart for the good of the nation? Even if it were to contradict the will of your Master?"

Wow. Really?

That was a shocking question, but her gut answered it easily. The higher love of selfless vocation was sometimes difficult to achieve with a Grobal employer—she had no idea if it would be achievable with the Heir. With the Eminence Nekantor, she couldn't imagine it possible at all. But loving Varin was easy. Who wouldn't seek the greater good, after the nation had gone astray for so long?

"Yes, I will swear."

Master Katella gave a subtle smile. "Come with me."

Together, they left the office and walked along the vaulted stone hallway to the main entry foyer. No one was here; the Headmaster might have gone back to his office behind the bronze doors on her right, but those doors were closed. Mother led her to a single door opposite—one sealed with a palm lock. Outside the Eminence's Residence, such classical locks were vanishingly rare.

Mother pressed her palm to the glass plate. A red light flashed, and the door opened.

They entered a tiny room that smelled like paper. Careful illumination issued from around the edges of a metal ceiling; it felt low and flat after the stone vaulting of the foyer. The wall facing her was made up entirely of locked metal drawers. On her left, just out of sight of the door, was a metal table with two glass cases on top. A low, padded platform sat beside it.

Catín couldn't stop her curiosity. "Mother, may I ask you a question?"

Mother went ahead of her to the table. "No need to ask, sweet Catín. This—" she caressed the case on the left, "—is the charter of the Imbati Service Academy, guaranteeing our independence and giving us freedom from uninvited incursion by Highers in return for our oaths of silence. It was signed by the Great Grobal Fyn himself four hundred years ago."

Catín joined her at the case and looked in. The charter of the Academy? It hardly looked four hundred years old, although the handwriting was an unfamiliar style, tilted on its axis, with unexpected flourishing embellishments in places. The founder of modern Varin had a surprisingly legible signature: Grobal Fyn G. Both G symbols had fancy calligraphic serifs, providing a stylistic symmetry.

"So the Imbati began four hundred years ago," Catín murmured.

"We got our own school four hundred years ago," said Mother. "To our knowledge, we have always been secret keepers." She moved her hand to the other case. "And on this side is the Grobal Trust. You will kneel on the platform and lay your hand on the case to swear."

Catín held her breath to hide her amazement and moved around to better view the Trust. It was a heavy document of many pages. She'd never read it in its entirety, but everyone knew it outlined the responsibilities of the Grobal to care for the people of Varin. Every act of government referenced it. It looked so—

"Mother . . . ?"

"You may ask."

"Why does it look so old?" Though not all of it looked the same age; some of the pages were worn and cracked, while others were obviously newer.