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But making snap judgments about the disposition of enemy forces from fragmentary scouts' reports and getting thousands of men in various branches into position was something else entirely. Splitting your forces and getting them to take different paths to an objective, each under its own commander, and having them arrive simultaneously-that was a skill very few men had. Instilling discipline in men to continue maneuvering during the battle itself, for men to disengage right now when they could kill their opponent with just one more thrust, and to get men to communicate so lines could open just a second before a cavalry charge came through the ranks themselves-that was almost impossible. Gavin was good at men and magic. Corvan understood numbers and time and tactics. And sixteen years ago, he'd certainly been Gavin's master in the art of deception. Together, they'd been unstoppable.

"Of course, Rask did massacre my village." Corvan said it dispassionately. He wasn't working through his fury at losing everyone he knew; he was working through the story people would tell: I thought the Prism and General Danavis hated each other! They do, but the Prism needed a general, and Danavis's village was just butchered by King Garadul, he wants revenge.

It worked. It would seem odd, but not incredible. It had been sixteen years.

"So we're both using each other," Gavin said. "I need your tactical genius, you need my army to effect your revenge. I could check in on you openly, making it clear I didn't quite trust you."

"I could grumble about slights in front of the men. Nothing to undermine their confidence, but enough to make it clear I wasn't comfortable with you."

"It could work."

"It could," Corvan said. He turned from looking at the bay. "Deception comes quickly to you these days."

"Too much practice," Gavin said, sobered from his initial joy at the chance to work with his friend once more. "You know, if this works, we can be friends again in a year or two. Even in public."

"Unless I can serve you better as your enemy, Lord Prism."

"I've got enough of those. But fair enough. Now I've got a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" Corvan asked, dubious.

"I can't be seen giving you something you enjoy, so you'll have to go downstairs without me. The room directly below this one." They stepped back toward the counsel room, but Gavin stopped. "How is she?"

Corvan knew who he was talking about and what he really meant. "Karris once seemed like a wilting flower, bowing to her father's every command. And she became a Blackguard, the White's left hand. If anyone can make it, she will."

Gavin took a deep breath and, masks of seriousness and distrust replaced, they stepped into the counsel room. Commander Ironfist had already returned. He stood by the main doors in the loose, casual readiness of a man who spent much of his life guarding, waiting, watching. He was accustomed to inactivity and prepared for violence.

"Commander," Gavin said. "Corvan Danavis and I find ourselves with a common enemy. He has agreed to help us coordinate Garriston's defenses. Please notify the men that they will be overseen by General Danavis, effective immediately. The general will answer only to me. General, you can take it from there?"

Corvan looked like a man who'd swallowed vinegary wine and he wasn't doing a good job of hiding the fact. "Yes, my Lord Prism."

Gavin waved his hand in dismissal. Abrupt, slightly imperious. Let Commander Ironfist take it as Gavin asserting his dominance. Corvan's jaw tightened, but he bowed and left.

Go, my friend, and may finding your daughter repay a tiny measure of the misery you've endured because of me.

Chapter 61

"Will is what makes the Chromeria scary, even for us," Liv said. The sun was just touching the horizon outside, and room slaves entered as if on cue and began lighting lamps and a fire.

"Who is this Will, and how do we stop him?" Kip asked.

"Kip." Liv tilted her head down. "Focus."

"Sorry, go ahead." She was ignoring the room slaves, so Kip tried to do so as well.

"Will is just what you think it is. You impose your will on the world. You will magic to happen. Will can cover over the gaps in flawed drafting. That's especially important for flailers."

"Flailers?"

"All men drafters and the half of the women drafters who aren't superchromats," Liv said. She paused. "Well, most men, huh?"

The term was a bit nasty, really. A little bit, We're better than you are, you helpless hacks. You try, we succeed. But that was how the Chromeria worked, wasn't it? Everything was about power and dominance. "Right," Kip said, "flailers. Those sad sacks. Pitiful." Even if Kip found himself in the elite group, it didn't mean he had to like how the others were demeaned.

Liv flushed and shot back, "Look, Kip, you don't have to like it, but you have to deal with it. And you'll probably do better if you don't have a chip on your shoulder about everything. It's not like back home. Because guess what? We don't have a home now. The Chromeria is all we get, and we've got it good. So grow up."

It was like he'd been slapped. She was right, but he hadn't expected so much vehemence out of nowhere. He averted his eyes. "Right. Sorry."

She expelled a breath. "No, I'm sorry. That… I don't know… I guess I'm still adjusting to this whole life myself. There's a hierarchy to everything at the Chromeria, Kip, and it's not easy to adjust to. I don't even know if it's good to adjust to it. But once you know your place, you can figure out how you're supposed to deal with everyone else, even people you don't know. It does simplify things. I just-after the last three years as a monochrome in an obscure color, and a Tyrean on top of that, I never liked the whole hierarchy. But I'd finally come to terms with my place in it, and I was almost finished with my training and ready to head out into my shitty life. Now I'm a bichrome and everything's different, overnight. I'm going to have to stay at the Chromeria for another couple of years, and my life will be totally different. People see me now." She smiled ruefully, sadly. "I guess you know all about having everything change in a blink. The thing is, I like my new life. I have new clothes, jewelry, an allowance. A room slave. I guess what I'm seeing is that maybe I didn't hate the hierarchy, maybe I just hated being at the bottom of it. So every time I enjoy something, it feels like confirmation that I'm a hypocrite."

"I'll promise to make your life as difficult as possible, if it'll make you happy," Kip said.

She hit his shoulder playfully, but it nailed a sensitive spot. "You're a real lifesaver, Kip." She grinned, though, as he rubbed his shoulder. Then her smile faded again. "I guess I should take my own advice and start dealing with how things are. You're the Prism's son, I'm your tutor. I shouldn't hit you. Orholam, you're the Prism's son, how dare I?"

Kip's chest tightened. "No!" he almost shouted. The room slaves shot looks at him. He lowered his voice, embarrassed. "Liv, swear to me you won't. I-"

What were you going to say, Kip? I've been in love with you since I can remember? Right.

"I couldn't bear losing my last anchor to Rekton," he said instead, all the words tripping over each other. "You're the only one who knew me before all this."

Great, good job making it seem like it's totally impersonal. I don't care about you, I just care about Rekton.

"I mean… Liv, you know me, you're-" You're my friend? That sounds a little presumptuous, doesn't it? What if she's never thought of you as a friend?

"You're from Rekton, too," he said instead, lamely. Impersonal again. Damn! "I need someone to talk to, and I've always… admired you."

Admired? Like she's a painting?

"I mean, I appreciate-"

Appreciate. Kind of the same as admire, isn't it? Like she's a good cook?

Orholam's balls, this is agony! Ah, a way out! Not appreciate her, but appreciate how she does something.

"I appreciate how you-" How she whats?

How she looks in that one too-small green shirt she used to-shit!

"-have always been so nice to me."

Now you're the pleading, awkward child again. Well done. Kip Silver Tongue, they ought to call you.

I'm never going to speak to another woman again.

Kip could barely stand to look at Liv after that performance, but she waited until he met her eyes, leery.

"Why, Kip, are you flirting with me?!" she asked.

It was like Kip had stepped into that nightmare where he walked to the Midsummer's Dance on the green, barely registering the curious glances until he stepped up on the stage and the music stopped, every dancer missed their steps, and everyone turned to look at him. And then he noticed he was naked. And then everyone started laughing. Pointing. Making jokes.

No, this was worse. He wasn't going to wake from this. All the blood had drained from his face. Evernight, it had drained from everywhere. He had no idea where it had all gone, but it had taken his ability to speak with it.

"Kip, I'm kidding," Liv said.

His mouth moved. Blood coming back. Thoughts slower.

"Not often that you're left with nothing to say," Liv said, poking him. His thoughts on that must have shown, because she smirked. "If you don't watch it, I'll ruffle your hair."

"That's it, I'm shaving my head!" Kip declared.

Liv laughed. "Enough, enough! No more digressions! I'll never teach you anything if we keep on like this."

"So," Kip said, "will. Not the bad man. See? At least I remember where we got off track."

Liv shook her head, amused. "Not so fast. First, Kip, you've got a deal. I'd love to be your friend. Maybe we can remind each other every now and again where we came from."

Kip felt his ears getting hot. As if they'd ever cooled. "I'd like that a lot," he said.

"Now, finally, will. Will covers a multitude of flaws, just as-"

"Love covers a multitude of sins," a familiar voice declared from the door.

Both Kip's and Liv's heads snapped around. It was Master Danavis, Liv's father, alive.

"Father? Father!" Liv literally shrieked. She jumped up and ran to her father and threw herself into his arms. Corvan laughed and squeezed her hard.

"I heard you were dead!" Liv said.

Um, yes, that was me. Kip, bringer of false bad tidings. "I didn't believe it, but I was so-" Liv started crying.

Corvan closed his eyes, just holding his daughter. Kip wondered if there were some way he could escape.

And go where? This is my room.

But after a few moments, Corvan gently pushed his daughter back. "I am surprisingly durable. You look more lovely than ever, Aliviana."

"I'm all cryey," Liv protested, wiping her eyes.

"Perhaps even a smidge more beautiful than your mother. A claim I'd not have tolerated until this day, seeing the truth with my own eyes. She'd be so proud of you."

"Father," Liv said, her cheeks coloring, but pleased.

"Don't you think she's beautiful, Kip?"

Kip spluttered, making some kind of sound like he was drowning. Seriously, if embarrassment were a muscle, I'd be huge.

"Faather!" Liv said, horrified.

Corvan laughed. "My day wouldn't have been complete without my daughter thinking I was embarrassing. Your pardon, Kip."

"Erm," Kip said eloquently. So he hadn't been the target after all. Liv had. Kip was seeing where she got her wicked sense of humor.

"It's wonderful to see you well, Kip… Kip Guile." Corvan shook his head, astounded. "Liv, Kip, I'd love to catch up with you both, but the Prism has just given me work."

"Work?" Liv asked.

"I've been put in charge of the defense of Garriston, under only the Prism himself."

"What?!" Liv said. "You're a general again?"

"Not as enviable a position as you might think. A softer bed doesn't make for easier sleep when ten thousand lives rest in your shaking hands. King Garadul's army will be here in about five days. They'll attack the day after Midsummer's. If we're to hold this city, I'll have to devise a more brilliant defense than I've ever seen. I need to go set some things in motion now, but Liv, I'll come find you sometime after midnight. Kip, maybe tomorrow?"

"I'd like that, Master Danavis. General Danavis?"

Master Danavis smiled. "Yes. Hadn't noticed how much I'd missed that. Despite everything. Say, Liv, do you know anything about Karris White Oak?"

Liv shrugged. "Only Blood Forester Blackguard, astounding fighter, bichrome who was nearly a poly, maybe the fastest drafter on the Jaspers. Why?"

The new general said, "She was captured by King Garadul. The Prism won't admit it, but I know it's going to drive him to distraction. He cares a great deal about her. I doubt it will be possible to rescue her, not with the limited assets I have, but I'm going to learn all I can to see if there's any hope at all."

And just like that, a stupid, mad, impossible idea took root.

Chapter 62

"Wake up, Kip," a voice said.

Kip was usually a heavy sleeper, but he sat upright instantly at that voice. "My Lord Prism?" he asked, blinking. It felt like it had barely been ten minutes since he went to bed.

Gavin said, "Get dressed. We're going for a walk." He turned toward Commander Ironfist, who was standing by the door. "You're invited."

A grin flashed over Ironfist's face, visible only because his teeth were so starkly white against his ebony skin. He would have accompanied them regardless.

Kip pulled on his clothes. Within minutes, they were walking the streets of Garriston. Kip was playing his part of the gawker once more, still a little overwhelmed by being in a city of this size, despite that it wasn't nearly as impressive as the Jaspers. The construction, of course, wasn't all towering minarets. Like back home, the buildings were square, with flat roofs where people could relax in the evenings or sleep during the unbearably hot nights. Even with the sea breezes, it got stiflingly hot here. But the buildings here weren't solely the stone construction that was used in Rekton. Interspersed with the stone, often on the same building, were mud bricks and date palm wood, all stuck together with gypsum mortar. Even the whitewash, helpful in cooling homes and preserving the mortar and mud bricks from the sun, was applied haphazardly. The buildings were, however, three and four stories tall. Only a few buildings in Rekton rose to three stories. People in the streets looked dirty, and there was garbage everywhere.

Gavin, Kip noticed, was wearing a worn, faded cloak with a single button holding it closed in front. Disguising his status? Indeed, Commander Ironfist was getting more stares than either Kip or Gavin.

"Hey, Ironfist, you think you could be a little less conspicu-" Gavin started, then traced his eyes from Ironfist's feet up, until he had to tilt his head back to take in the huge, hugely muscled man. "Never mind."

Kip smiled. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"You'll see," Gavin said. "How are your studies?"

"I don't know that anything I've done yet counts as studying," Kip said. He scrunched his face. "Liv was barely beginning to explain how drafters' dependence on will makes for a lot of dangerous men when her father came in."

"What'd she say?"

"Well, nothing. I didn't really understand it, and she didn't get the chance to explain."

Gavin turned into an alley to help them bypass the crowded streets surrounding the water market. "Very few men are superchromats, Kip. Even I'm not a superchromat, though Dazen was, so apparently it runs in the family. If you want to draft something that will endure, you have to draft the exact middle of the spectrum you're working with. You want to make a blue sword that will last years after you draft it? It has to be perfect, and of course, you have to keep it out of light, but that's a different topic. Because men, aside from the few exceptions, can't do that-can't draft in the exact middle of a color, not can't keep it out of the light, obviously. Ahem, that is, if men want to make anything permanent, they have to add will. Makes it sound like it's meat you add to a stew, doesn't it? Hmm. I don't teach much, obviously. Let me try this." Gavin appeared perfectly heedless of the dark corners they were passing and the acquisitive eyes that followed them. But then, once any acquisitive eyes alit on Ironfist, they found other things to study in a hurry.

"Every time you draft, you use your will. You have to decide that something totally outlandish, weird, unnatural-seeming is going to happen, and you're going to make it happen. In other words, you decide to do magic. Now, the more outlandish it is, the harder it is to believe you can really do it. Or to put it another way, the more will it takes. You with me?"

"Makes sense so far," Kip said.

"Good. Now, blue sword." Gavin lifted a hand from beneath his cloak. His hand was solid blue, and as Kip watched, blue luxin blossomed from it. Gelled, solidified, hardened into the form of a blue sword. Gavin handed it to Kip.

Kip took it, feeling self-conscious as they passed through an intersection with another alley and he was bearing the blade like he was following it to his destiny. "Uh," he said, but then he felt the hilt go slippery. A moment later, the blade drooped, broke off the hilt of its own weight, and splatted on the dirty cobblestones of the alley. There was a light shimmer of blue, and then nothing but blue dust. The same happened moments later to the hilt in Kip's hand, leaving only that gritty blue dust.

"What's the dust?" Kip asked.

"A later lesson," Gavin said. "I'm having trouble teaching the basics as it is. The point for you is to imagine I'd drafted you a plow instead of a sword. Great, it works while the drafter is at your farm, but ten minutes after he leaves, all you've got is dust, literally. Not helpful. This is why superchromats are heavily recruited by all satrapies."

"So they can make plows?"

"Not all magic is for fun and dismemberment, Kip. In fact, most drafters spend their whole lives doing practical things like making plows. For every artist, there's ten men who repair roofs with green luxin. Anyway, men-and the women who aren't lucky enough to be superchromats-can cover their failings with will."

"You mean just by trying harder."

"Pretty much."

"That doesn't sound so bad. So they try harder. Liv was making men among drafters sound like slaves compared to the freeborn."

"More like dogs, I'd say," Gavin said.

"Huh?"

"Well, they are second-class because using will constantly wears you. It's exhausting. And will isn't just effort, it's belief and effort together. So if you need belief to do magic, what happens to the man who loses all his belief in himself?"

"He can't do magic?" Kip guessed.

"Exactly. That's half of what all the hierarchy among drafters is about. Satraps and satrapahs treat drafters like they're Orholam's gift to the world not just because they are Orholam's gift, but because if the drafter doesn't believe he's special and you call on him to do magic, he won't be able to do it. Drafter who can't draft? Useless."

"I never thought of that." So the rigid hierarchy wasn't simply because they could? Kip guessed that this wasn't the way Liv's tutors had explained things to her.

"Of course, it's a circle that spirals on itself. You're a satrap, you've paid a fortune for a bichrome drafter, well, now you've invested so much in him that you can't afford for him to fail you, so you have to reinforce his feelings of superiority and pamper him, give him slaves and so forth. It makes the more powerful drafters more and more difficult to manage."

There was a cough from behind them. Ironfist.

"Commander," Gavin asked, "you have something to add to this discussion?"

"Little dust in my throat. Apologies," Ironfist said, sounding not at all apologetic.

"Problem with will is, we think that the more will a man or woman expends in their life, the faster they die. Or it could merely be that men or women with great will tend to draft a lot more. Either way, their careers are spectacular. And short. It's probably why male drafters don't tend to live as long as women do, expending will all the time in order to have their drafting be useful. Side effect is that among the most powerful drafters, we have a lot of people with titanic will. Or, to put it bluntly, a lot of arrogant assholes. Especially the men. And madmen. Delusional people tend to believe in what they're doing. Makes them powerful."

"So I'm going to be spending my time with crazy, arrogant bastards."

"Well, many of them are of the finest blood."

Oh, that's right, I'm the only bastard around here. "I thought being a drafter was going to be fun," Kip said.

"Grunts never get to scull," Gavin said.

"Grunts?"

"Grunts, mundies, norms, grubbers, clods, shovelslingers, blinders, dulls, scrubs, mouth breathers, slumps, the benighted-there's lots of names. Most of them not as nice as those. They all mean the same thing: non-drafters."

"So what about you?" Kip asked, as they finally left the alleys. They crossed a wide, peaked stone bridge over the Umber River.

Gavin looked at him. "You mean what nasty names do they call me?"

"No!" Oh, Gavin was teasing. Kip scowled. "Your eyes don't"-he looked for the right word-"halo. So does that mean you can draft as much as you want?"

"I tire like anyone, but yes. For a time I can draft every day as much as I can handle and it won't burn me out. Someday, most likely five years from now, I will start to lose colors. It will take about a year, and then I'll die."

"Why five years from now?" Kip asked. It was still odd to him how matter-of-fact drafters were about their impending deaths. I guess they have time to get used to the idea.

"It always happens on multiples of seven from when a Prism begins his reign. I've made it sixteen years, so I have until twenty-one. Long time for a Prism."

"Oh. Why multiples of seven?"

"Because there's seven colors, seven virtues, seven satrapies? Because Orholam likes the number seven? Truth is, no one knows."

They walked on through streets swelling with people starting their morning errands, and those eager to get as much work done as possible before the heat of the day. They approached a long line of workers bottlenecked at the Lover's Gate, heading out to work outside the city. Though Kip didn't even see him draft, Gavin turned and handed him a green rock. Not a rock. Green luxin, perfectly the size to fit in Kip's palm. Kip took it, confused.

"You bring your specs?" Gavin asked. He handed Kip a square board, not a foot on each side, perfectly white.

Kip produced them. Smiled weakly. I have a bad feeling about what he's going to tell me next.

"Your turn. You can have lunch-or dinner or possibly breakfast-when you make a green luxin ball of your own. You've got the spectacles, a white reflector, plenty of sun, and an example. I couldn't make it easier if I tried."

"But I need Skill, Will, Source, and Still. I don't have skill. Any skill. At all."

Gavin looked at him sardonically. "And how do you think you get skilled? Skill is the most overrated of the requisites. Will covers a multitude of flaws."

I keep hearing that. Kip hadn't even had breakfast, and he wasn't going to get to eat until he made a magic ball? Fantastic.

They came upon the back of the line. Gavin glanced at Commander Ironfist. Without further prompting, Ironfist said, "Looks like a wagon broke down. It's blocking half the gate."

Gavin swept a hand forward, as in, You go first. Commander Ironfist went first, and the impatient farmers and craftsman parted easily for him. Or at least those who looked furious at being pushed aside quickly hid it once they saw the size of the man towering over them. "We're going to help," Gavin said.

"Sure, you Parian scum," someone said, spitting. Gavin stopped and scanned the crowd for who'd spoken. As men met his eyes and saw those prismatic orbs, they quieted, confused, stunned.

"You can have my help, or you can have my enmity," Gavin said loudly. He unbuttoned the nondescript cloak and threw it back over his shoulders, exposing the almost blindingly white coat and shirt he wore underneath, worked with gold thread and jewels.

He walked on, and Kip scooted close to him. The crowd parted around them, murmuring questions and imprecations. In a minute, they were at the front of the line. At least a dozen men were straining to move a wagon. Apparently, the horses had spooked and veered to the side as they passed through the gate. The wagon's wheel had smashed into the gate's support-here actually the Lover's hair. The wheel was completely shattered, as was the wagon's axle, and the whole thing was still stuck against the wall, making normal efforts at repair impossible. The men were straining to lift the wagon by sheer brute strength, with a few using long poles to try to crank the mass off the wall.

"We're going to have to bring up an empty wagon and unload this before we've got a chance," one of the guards was saying.

To Kip's admittedly inexperienced eye, the man was right. The combined muscle of all these laborers was barely budging the wagon. But the assembled crowd groaned, a few complaining aloud.

"Bring an empty wagon? From where? Through that whole mess behind us? It'll take hours!"

"You all are going to have to use the other gates today," the guard said.

That met similar protests. With how thickly crowded the street was, none of the men at the front of the line would be able to leave until everyone at the back dispersed. It would take hours.

"What?" the guard shouted. "I didn't do this. I'm just trying to fix it! You have a better idea?"

"I do," Gavin said.

"Oh, sure, you smart-Lord Prism!" the guard said.

That sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd.

Gavin ignored it. He gestured to the men to step back. They did, some in awe, others more peeved, some hostile. He simply walked to where the wagon was smashed against the wall. "I see why you had trouble," he said. "But I have a few extra tools available to me."

Kip, still holding his green luxin ball and the white board, realized Commander Ironfist had disappeared.

He's gigantic. How does he disappear? Kip looked around, and finally found him. The commander was standing behind a man in the crowd whose hand had dropped to the big work knife at his belt. Commander Ironfist's huge hand enveloped both the man's hand and his knife. The commander himself, towering over the man, was quietly speaking in his ear.

As he spoke, the man's face blanched and his whole body slackened.

Commander Ironfist gave the man a friendly pounding on his shoulder-which nearly crushed him-and stepped back toward Gavin.

"Always running off when I need you," Gavin said.

Commander Ironfist grunted.

Kip couldn't help himself. "I think he might have just saved your-" He saw the look on Gavin's face belatedly. Gavin knew. "Oh. Um. Never mind." Clever Kip.

But Gavin was back to work already. "I need ropes." He held a hand up over his head and a bar of yellow luxin formed in his hand and snapped out in both directions, until it was three times the height of a man. He handed it to one of the stunned workers. "You and you, get this in position, I'll need you to lever the wagon off the wall."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16