Note: This chapter contains casual homophobia which does not in any way reflect the author's views.

"Hey, Nige! Heads up!" The words were accompanied by a painful thump to the back of his head. "Nice reflexes, buddy. Toss it back, will ya?"

As the world swam back into focus, he turned to see Pressley grinning at him from a few feet away, hand held out expectantly. He stooped to pick up the rubber ball at his feet, but instead of tossing it back, he fixed a disapproving glare on the other boy.

Pressley's grin faded. "Oh, jeez, Nige, you're not gonna start—"

Maxine ignored him. "Fooling around again?" he demanded. "I find it hard to believe you've finished all your work by noon."

"There is no work. There's nothing to do around here unless you're crazy enough to go ask for it! Come on, take a break for once and come toss the ball around with us."

"I happen to be on my way to his lordship right now. He had me summoned personally—and you'd better hope he doesn't come looking for me and catch you lying down on the job."

"Oh, he won't catch me lying down. Even I can't catch and throw like that."

"Very funny," Maxine snapped. "But if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

"At least give the ball back! That's my personal property you're walking off with!"

Maxine tossed the ball backwards over his shoulder as he departed, and was disappointed to hear the smack of rubber against palm. Apparently poetic justice was not on his side today.

"Carew wouldn't give you so much to do if you'd leave him alone for five minutes!" Pressley called after him. "There's no reward for working your ass off as a lousy page, you know!"

He should have kept the ball.

Two years previously, following the war with Shin Makoku, Matthias Carew had been among a select group of soldiers granted titles for distinguished service. Young, handsome, and charismatic, he was recognized as a prodigy even by those born and bred aristocrats who took the creation of new titles as a personal insult.

Everyone knew of his courage in battle, how despite his low birth he had risen through the ranks in record time, and how after receiving his title, he had declined all the accompanying territory save for his home town, saying that he was sure the neighboring lands would much prefer to stay under the authority of the lords they were accustomed to. It was a clever strategy; as a newcomer to the court, no amount of land would help him if he had to contend with resentment over lost territory from his seniors. Some of the other nobles created that day had followed his example, and now they formed a small faction, low on property, but immensely popular among the other lords, and even more so with the ladies, if the rumors were true.

The stories of the then title-less Lord Carew, a native of his own village, had come to his ears long before the rest of the country took notice, and it was hearing of the man's rapid rise to power that had convinced him it was only here, in the capital, that he could make a name for himself.

Maxine was immensely lucky to have been appointed to serve him personally. Starting out as a page was among the few chances a poorer boy had to improve his lot, and when war broke out, the nobility had offered positions to the sons of any men willing to serve in his lord's place. Each noble needed fifty such volunteers from his territory in order to escape his military duty, so when his mother finally decided that, with the war over, it was safe for him to leave and seek his fortune, Maxine found himself up against a truly daunting number of rivals.

Having a living father left him at something of a disadvantage, but he had expected this, and came prepared as one of the few boys with the money to pay his way in. He felt bad for a few minutes about the boys who had looked the other way long enough for him to pocket his new funds, but they wouldn't have lasted long as pages anyway. He'd done what was necessary to even the playing field. Boys like Pressley, sons of lower-ranking nobles, were guaranteed some kind of title or influence no matter what they did, but for the past two years, Maxine had had to work as hard as he possibly could to distinguish himself.

As a rule, he didn't mind the other boys' lack of drive—that only made it easier to stand out—but Pressley irritated him. Pressley seemed to have no conception of the effort Lord Carew had put in to reach his present position, nor of the honor entailed in being assigned personally to such a man. It was almost a shame that Maxine's plans required him to leave Lord Carew's services; but surely that would be worth it for the chance to someday work with him as an equal.

True, Lord Carew had done little to consolidate power since his appointment, but you couldn't be too hasty about these things. Coming as he did from the same background as Maxine, it was impossible that he was satisfied with his current status. He was simply biding his time, probably working behind the scenes to bring together the younger nobles into a powerful bloc with himself at the head. It was a glorious vision. And someday Maxine hoped to—no, he would be a part of it.

His lordship was waiting outside his quarters when Maxine arrived. On catching sight of him, his lordship smiled widely and hurried down the long hall to meet him.

"Nigel," he said. "That was fast."

Maxine tried to stand up a bit straighter. "I came as soon as I got your message, sir," he said, saluting.

Lord Carew laughed—in a friendly way, of course. "That's just like you. You do know there's no award for Best Page, don't you?"

Maxine tried not to grimace at the echo of Pressley's words. "I'm only doing my duty, sir."

"I suppose that's a good attitude to have. I still think a boy of your age should take a break every once in a while, but," he added, "right now I have something important to ask of you."

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to stand guard outside this room for a while."

Maxine's shoulders slumped a little. "Stand guard?"

His confusion must have been evident in his voice, for his lordship added quickly, "I have a fairly important meeting to conduct in my chambers. Nothing too top-secret, but I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

Maxine straightened up eagerly. "Yes, sir!"

"That's the spirit," his lordship said, laughing a little. Then, running a hand absently through his dark hair: "Well, I'm probably late enough to collect him as it is. We'll be back here in a few minutes. And remember, this is a private meeting. That means I don't want anyone listening, no matter how close they are to the door."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir!" he said indignantly.

Lord Carew grinned. "I knew I could count on you, Nigel." Turning, he made his way to the end of the hall with long, striding steps, giving one final wave as he turned the corner.

Maxine took up his post, still warm inside from his lordship's words. Even his face felt heated, and without quite meaning to he found himself fiddling with a string hanging from one of his cuffs. He'd been putting off getting it mended; it gave him something calming to do when he was agitated, but there was no reason to be agitated now. Pressley's insolence must have affected him more than he thought.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to imitate his Lordship, but even without a mirror he could tell it was no good. His hair was too short, or else he wasn't doing it carelessly enough. He just didn't have the right kind of attitude to pull off all the little mannerisms Lord Carew had that signaled a trustworthy, easygoing nature, the kind of man you instinctively liked, unless you were one of the entrenched nobility whose status he threatened.

Body language was important if you wanted to get ahead, but as much as Maxine practiced he just couldn't master those little things that seemed to come so naturally to his Lordship. Sometimes after flinging himself onto the bed in embarrassment from watching his practice in the mirror, he wondered if maybe all this really was hopeless after all.

But thinking like that was only troubling him further, and he returned to the thread. He tugged at it a little, though it refused to give any further, then set his attention to looping it through his fingers. With it still attached at one end, he couldn't do much beyond that despite its length. (Little finger, ring finger, middle, index. Over, under, over, under. Back over the index…)

At home he'd often carried a few lengths of string in his pocket to do tricks with, but a grown man of seventeen couldn't be caught doing something so childish. His mother hadn't quite grasped that; she kept asking in her letters whether he'd come up with any new shapes, or drawing some new one the neighbor children had been showing off. He couldn't bring himself to disappoint her by telling her that he was too old to play those silly games anymore. She'd taught them to him, after all, while he sat in the kitchen sniveling in the aftermath of his father's attempts to get him out into the fields with the cows.

When his father finally gave up in disgust, he stayed on in the kitchen while his younger brother took to the fields as every male member of the family had done for generations. He watched for the water to boil—he was too afraid to light the fire—and listened to his mother's stories, pausing at intervals to taste-test the food. When the meals were finished and they were waiting for his father and brother to come in, she would pull out some string and teach him a new figure to practice while she fixed the next meal. As he grew older, he helped her spin the wool from the sheep they kept, who were perfectly docile—until they caught sight of him. It was satisfying to see them justly defeated and put to use for the benefit of their human enemies, and although the spinning was hard work, he enjoyed it. The sheep had earned their fate.

Sometimes the other women from the neighborhood would come over, and he'd listen to them talk about their children and husbands and girlhoods, and when they exchanged recipes he would write them down so his mother could keep her attention on the loom. Or else he'd show them all a trick with the string he'd made up on his own, like the butterfly that flapped its wings when he moved his thumbs, and they'd tell his mother how lucky was to have such a clever boy, and she'd smile at him and say he was bound for great things.

He was thirteen when he discovered that he was a sissy for spending all his time with his mother. His brother Neil was only too glad to tell him that he, Nigel, was making it impossible for him, Neil, to get anywhere socially among the other eleven-year-olds. Five years of subduing cattle had made him more than capable of dealing with anyone who chose to mention their draft-dodging father, but a sissy older brother was another matter. His mother only aggravated the problem by forcing him to attend the school that had recently been erected as a favor to Matthias Carew, a local boy who had saved the life of his commanding officer, who evidently had ties to the noble governing their territory.

His mother had taught him to read and write, but she insisted he attend so as to encourage him to talk to the other children. He could understand her worry—he was only four years younger than she had been when she married his father, and he knew hardly anyone in the village. But as far as he was concerned, school was merely an annoyance, and he made it as clear as possible to all concerned that he had no intention of suffering through his peers' painful efforts to master the alphabet when he had known it for years, and learned it far quicker besides.

As a result, his first week at school ended with a thrashing administered in turns by ten different boys. His brother's attempt to disassociate himself by joining in the beating was unsuccessful, and besides the bruises, the bloody noses and the cut lip, they brought home that evening the shame of a social circle reduced to Dugald Mallory and his eight-year-old sister.

He was not allowed to withdraw from school, and he remained a sissy, although Neil was eventually accepted on his own merits. Soon, though, he was able to put names to faces, and years of listening to mothers talking amongst themselves became a weapon to deflect the fists of chronic bed-wetters and former nudists. The same women who had applauded his helpfulness and skill in creating butterflies out of string had, he now found, turned to their husbands the same evening and wondered what on earth could go wrong to make a boy spend his time like that. But in their carelessness they had sown the seeds of their own sons' destruction, and given him a weapon that he used to the fullest.

The experience was a lesson as well, and he was a quick learner. He was not, he saw, going to be liked, and moreover he was not going to be told this honestly. What he was going to be was an important man. You could shut any mouth you wanted as long as you had the strings set up right. From the moment he heard of Carew's rise through the ranks until the moment he left town two years later, he knew his destiny was waiting at the capital. War was not for him, but with the right attitude, he would rise to the top anyway.

With the war ended, his mother had at last consented to send him off, with all the string he would need to divert himself in his spare time. Her unspoken worry was that he would otherwise be ensnared by the loose women who doubtless waited in the capital, lurking behind pillars and around corners for unsuspecting boys in search of wholesome amusement.

She needn't have worried; he had no intention of being distracted from his goal. Women were not to be dealt with on their own terms. When he had the power to set terms he would indulge, but until then sex was too dangerous a weapon. His nights were instead spent in study, attending to his uniform, and most importantly, resting, to keep his mind sharp and his thoughts rational and focused.

He hadn't been able to dispose of the unused string his mother had woven herself, but the sourballs were another matter. Sucking on one of them was the most undignified activity he could think of, but as with the string games, his mother was convinced he still adored them. The ones he was sent off with had been distributed to some children on the on the street immediately upon arrival, but as soon as he wrote home with his new address there was a hand-wrapped parcel delivered to his chambers, with an even bigger supply and a letter instructing him that Lord Carew's mother insisted he introduce himself with a gift of the provided sourballs.

With an effort he overcame his agonies of embarrassment and did so, entirely against his better judgment, bowing as low as he could and apologizing profusely for the annoyance. To his surprise, his Lordship was delighted to meet a boy from his former home, and was quite taken with the candies as well. Within a week Maxine had been transferred to Lord Carew's service, and from then on the sourballs were diverted to his Lordship, who kept a bowl of them in his chambers.

Thinking of the sourballs gave him an irritating nostalgic feeling, which rested as it always did in the pit of his stomach. He'd given that habit up long ago. Why would it come back now? But habit kicked or not, his mouth was watering, and the damn things were less than ten strides away. Through the door of Lord Carew's private chambers. The door which he'd sworn a solemn oath to guard not five minutes ago.

Well.

Maybe just one.

This particular corridor was taken up entirely by Lord Carew's chambers. There were doors only on one side, and the end not opening onto the main hallway terminated in a window. There was therefore only one direction by which someone might approach his post, and he could be in and out of the room quickly enough that the chances of Lord Carew returning to an empty hall would be negligible. Keeping his ears peeled for footsteps, he edged towards the door and ducked in.

Once inside, he was momentarily frozen by the grandeur of the place. Big grand slabs of stone made up the floor, and there were huge, lush carpets not only covering the stone but also on the walls—to insulate the room, he supposed. Everything that could have something on top of it did; the chairs had pillows and extra blanket-like things on them in case you didn't want to sit on the actual upholstery; all the bureaus and end tables had vases or little statues on them; and there were one or two things constructed of metal rods that looked like they had been built just so more rugs could be hung over them. And then of course everything was decorated. Just about all the wood had some kind of flowers or animals carved into it, even the parts that were too high up to be at anyone's eye level.

Locating the bowl of sourballs next to a huge old wardrobe, he navigated his way through the maze of objets d'art, trying not to step on the rugs, which looked deep enough to cast up hated to impugn Lord Carew's taste, but he definitely wasn't going to keep so many statues of flying people or hands in his bedroom when he had one like this.

He was going to have a room like this someday. He was suddenly quite sure of that, and the thought made him stop to cast another look around the room, this time with the eye of an appraiser rather than an admirer. It was a very nice room. He hadn't been raised around furnishings of this quality, but had he been the self of two years ago, just arrived in the capital off the proverbial turnip cart, he would have known this for the real aristocratic article.

Choosing your sourball was an art, and he found he hadn't lost his touch in the intervening two years. But as he was wondering whether to select based on size or firmness, there was a noise at the door. The wrong door, one he hadn't even realized was there. It was on the other side from where he had entered, so clearly it was the one for the servants, who had their own passageways to use so that the nobles didn't have to encounter them in the halls.

It was the maid, surely.

The latch clicked.

All he had to do was explain that he was there to fetch something for his Lordship, and look down his nose at her until she left.

The door rattled a bit, stuck against an improperly placed rug.

It was a simple matter of—

The door opened just as he finished shutting himself into the wardrobe. To his horror, he heard Lord Carew's voice: "…faster, wasn't it?"

"All, right, Matt, you win." That was the voice of Lord Anton Rennoll, one of the soldiers who had received titles along with Lord Carew. The two had served in the same unit, and were still close friends; so this wasn't some secret, behind-the-scenes alliance. Despite his vulnerable position, Maxine couldn't help feeling a bit perturbed at being misled.

"I know when I'm beat," Lord Rennoll continued. He was interrupted by a clatter from somewhere around the center of the room.

"These damn statues," said his Lordship, sounding more irritated than Maxine had ever heard him. It was a bit of a relief to find that his easygoing ways weren't quite as natural as they seemed, but on the other hand, knowing that his Lordship of all people was putting on a front was disturbing, to say the least. Maxine had known the man must be more calculating than he let on, but he'd assumed that his public face was genuine, even if it didn't reveal quite all of his nature. It was better to know the truth than to allow someone to deceive you, he was sure of that, but even so he found himself wishing he hadn't found out.

Lord Carew seemed to have made it across the room now, and there was a scraping noise nearly as loud as when he'd tripped. When he spoke, though, it was in much happier tones. "There we go, let's get some air in here."

"Would you get away from that window?" Rennoll demanded. Now he was annoyed.

"Getting paranoid in our old age, are we?"

"One year," said Rennoll. "Not even a year; ten months." He was laughing a little, though. "Still, get away from the window."

"We're on the third floor. Who do you think's looking in, the birds?"

"Just humor an old man's whim, will you?"

"Fine, fine." His Lordship seemed to have returned to his usual laid-back manner. There was a bit more force behind his words than usual, somehow, but evidently he wasn't as changed as he'd first seemed.

Both their footsteps started in the same general direction; Maxine wasn't sure where in the room they were, except that it was away from the wardrobe. He let himself breathe a little more freely.

Lord Carew began with a purposeful tone. "So? Who have you spoken to?"

"Renfrey and Merricks—but we were sure of them already—and then Walklate surprised me. I didn't think he'd go for it at all, you know he likes to be contrary."

"Good old Ben! Well, I was sure of him even if you weren't."

"I'll be sure to let him know," said Rennoll dryly. "Anyway, Hundley—excuse me, Lord atte Hundley will take some convincing. Now there's a prime example of what property will do to a man. Fin Hundley grew up across the street from me, enlisted alongside me complaining just as loud as any of us about Lord Garnett being allowed to skate around duty. He gets a chunk of land after the war, and suddenly he's Lord Finbar atte Hundley, best of pals with the man who used to own him and his family like a brace of oxen. Now he's afraid someone's plotting to take a chunk out of his land, and he watches his old friends like a hawk for fear it might be them, if he'll even deign to set eyes on them."

"Your collectivist ranting can wait, Tony. Small Cimarron isn't quite ready for the revolution yet. Is there anyone else?"

Rennoll seemed to hesitate. "I spoke…in a way, with de Furnivall. I hinted, he implied. He may be willing to support us—or he may not."

"Oh, no," Lord Carew moaned. "I know what that means."

"Exactly. He wants you to speak with him."

"Ugh." His Lordship sounded more disgusted than Maxine would have thought possible at the mention of Lord Valentine de Furnivall. Lord de Furnivall was, from the gossip of his pages, a fair man, not one given to asking too much from inferiors.

"Like it or not, we need one of the more established nobles on our side, and I can't think of anyone else willing."

"I swear I can feel his damned eyes on me every second I'm in his presence. He's worse than Montague with her pages." Maxine wasn't quite sure what this meant. Lady Montague was known to be rather undiscriminating in her affections, but what could that have to do with a look a man would give another man?

"You do rather draw the eyes."

"Oh, shut up."

"I'll shut up," said Rennoll, "if you'll talk to him."

"I'll do it," Lord Carew grumbled, "but I won't like it."

"Well then," said Rennoll, and there was a different tone in his voice now. "On that note, shall we? That is why we're meeting in your quarters, isn't it?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," Lord Carew said, but Maxine could hear the grin in his voice.

There were more noises then, but he couldn't identify them. If they were done with talking, why couldn't they just leave? Then again, he realized, if they left through the wrong door it could mean his discovery. Perhaps if he slipped out quickly through the secret door he could feign having been gone only briefly to answer a call of nature.

Occupied in trying to think of an excuse, he almost didn't hear those noises when they started. They were grunts, but a strange kind of grunt, and they were slowly growing louder, almost as if…

As if…

He stopped himself on the edge of a very disturbing thought indeed. That was absurd, and downright impossible besides. He hunched down nevertheless, as if he could muffle the noises by compacting his body, and found his hand slipping to the dangling string. For he was agitated now; inexplicably so, since there was nothing at all going on outside.

"Nnf—Tony—"

No.

Oh, no.

He'd heard it whispered about, he suddenly remembered, twisting the string uselessly between his finger and thumb. This was possible, all right, but surely only the most dedicated of perverts would even contemplate it.

Surely Lord Carew couldn't be one of those. He was a man like Maxine, a self-made, determined one with no time for dalliances with men or women. They were from the same village; he'd met the man's mother once.

The string snapped, and in the confines of the wardrobe it was like the cracking of ice at the beginning of spring. They couldn't have heard it, he knew, but still he cringed, waiting without daring to breathe for the door to swing open.

The noises reached a crescendo, and it seemed to him all at once that they weren't so loud after all. It was as if they were coming from far away—no, he was the one who was far away.

Vaguely he recalled being six and watching with horrified fascination as a bull mounted a cow and went about its sordid business. He'd turned and run then, and it was only days later that he dared speak of it to his mother, who laughed and reassured him. Was this really any different from a couple of cows rutting in the fields? The noises were the same, anyway. The thought almost made him laugh, but he stifled it in time.

They were done now, the silence broken only by heavy breathing, and it came to him after the fact that the noise had never been very loud at all. Though the walls were covered with tapestries, they were clearly afraid of being heard or seen, and rightfully so. Of course they would keep quiet. Still it had seemed to him, a frightened child cowering silently in another man's room, as if nothing could be louder than the voices of those with the power to catch him.

But in this situation, weren't they the ones who might be caught?

They were speaking again, and he forced himself to listen, on the cusp though he was of some delightful realization.

"Don't forget," came Rennoll's voice, "de Furnivall won't listen to anyone but you."

"'Don't forget'; won't forget," said Carew.

"And don't try being clever, either," Rennoll warned. "We need this alliance sewn up to pressure the old geezers into doing some real good—"

"…good for the people, got it," Carew said, cutting him off. "Schools, irrigation, and all that. I know it as well as you do."

"Just so long as we're clear."

Footsteps came closer to the wardrobe, but the sound held no more terror for Maxine. The wardrobe was right next to the door they had come in by, that was all.

"Leave this way," said Carew, for the footsteps were his. "I've got a boy standing guard at the other entrance."

"You do think of everything."

"Do I really?"

"But can he be trusted?"

Carew laughed. "This one? Absolutely."

Maxine felt a small tingle of pride, but he squelched it. An hour ago he might have cared for the man's opinion. No longer.

"After you, my dear. I'll escort you back to see you don't get into trouble."

"You're too kind."

The door slammed behind them, and after a minute Maxine emerged from the wardrobe. Ignoring the sourballs, he paused in front of a mirror and smoothed down his uniform. When he was sure he was beyond reproach, he wasted no more time and headed straight for the door.

As he stood in the same spot where Carew had left him, he let his mind return to his earlier thought. He was now the one with power over them—and if their words were true, over a large portion of the younger nobles. If they were planning to pressure the possessors of older titles, the logical path led one to Lord Nowell, who, as one of the oldest titles in court, held a particular dislike for the popular young group. The future was fairly crackling with possibilities.

But he also saw that he had been foolish. He'd let himself become enraptured by the idea that someone like him had made it, and that someone had turned out to have some fairly significant character flaws. Not that it still turned his stomach to think of; it was, after all, merely a particularly filthy example of the sort of thing one could use to ensnare the unwary.

There was something to be said for this kind of information gathering. He didn't plan to make a habit of hiding in wardrobes, but perhaps there was more than met the eye in other places as well, the sort of things that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for the willing hand to search them out. The sort of very useful things that could catapult a mere page to a somewhat higher position.

These sorts of things, it turned out, were just the type of things Lord Nowell loved to hear.

It was perhaps a month later when Carew caught him in an abandoned hallway.

"Nigel!" he said. "How is Lord Nowell treating you?"

"Quite well," Maxine said. "Thank you, sir."

Carew looked a bit harried. "Look," he said. "I'm afraid this is goodbye. I wanted to thank you before I left—you were always a lot of help in my service."

"Thank you, sir," he said again. He did not ask where Carew was headed.

Carew seemed a bit caught off guard by the cold response, but after a moment he managed a thin smile. "I see you've heard the news. I suppose a disgraced man like me hasn't got any business asking, but would you mind letting my mother know?" He laughed. "It's an odd request, isn't it? Only I'm not sure of the mail out there—or of anything I send, to be honest. So I'd like her to get the news from someone as close to her as possible."

"I'll be sure to let her know."

"Thanks." He paused for a moment. "You know, it's a shame. I did have plans. But these things happen."

"Yes," said Maxine, and waited for him to leave.

"Well, so long. Come visit if you get the chance," Carew said, with a trace of his old humor.

When he was sure the man had gone, he returned to his tasks. There had been no need to ask where Carew and Rennoll were headed. They had been returned to their army duties and were off shortly to some remote outpost near the border. Their titles were intact, despite whispers to the contrary, but they had been informed discreetly that it would be best to vacate the court to avoid further disgrace.

He was quite sure of this, as he had been close by on the day Lord Nowell instructed his pages to set about spreading the news of the duo's proclivities. The news of their planned alliance was to follow a few days from now, and he had a strong hunch that many of their old army friends would be following them to the border shortly.

He began to draft in his head the letter to Carew's mother. There were so many ways to dance agonizingly around the point while seeming to do so out of honest kindheartedness—or prudishness, he couldn't decide which tack to take. Then there was the letter to his own mother, lamenting the evil core that could lie behind so handsome an exterior. And should he out with it in the end, or just barely hint at some unspeakable deed, leaving the actual revelation to reach the village on the wings given only to a really juicy story? He should make a night of it, see how best to weave the two letters together.

It was, after all, nice to take a break once in a while.