by Brent Weeks
The corregidor swallowed. “I understand.”
“My people will post lists of the women’s names in the order they will be flung, so that people inside Idoss can know when to listen for their friends’ deaths—or perhaps their enemies’, I suppose. We’re starting with known acquaintances of the city mothers. My engineers tell me that the forces generated in the catapult’s sling will have an even chance of killing a woman before she’s even released. I’ve told them to work on it. I want you to hear their screams as they fly.”
Kata Ham-haldita cursed quietly and left. He glanced at Liv, glanced away, ashamed.
“So that’s it?” Liv asked once he was gone. She wouldn’t have dared ask, before. She would have been too awed, too frightened. But now she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to learn from the best.
The prince was still looking at the women and the children. The children were playing together, shrieking and squabbling, unaware of their probable impending deaths. “Most likely,” the Color Prince said. “It all depends on how smart young Kata is. One of the city mothers is a shrewd old harpy named Neta Delucia. The guards were her men. If Kata isn’t careful, he has just signed his own death warrant by meeting with me privately. She’ll know immediately that I offered to buy him off. And I put Mother Delucia’s enemies at the top of the list of women to be killed. With her friends right behind them. The mother and the corregidor will fight. If Mother Delucia wins, we’ll fling half a dozen women into town, and suddenly Idoss will see reason. If Kata wins, it make take more or less time, depending on how decisively he moves.”
“And either way, you win?” Liv asked.
“We choose freely, Aliviana. That doesn’t mean we can’t set up the choices so that both benefit us.” He smiled, and that smile reminded Liv of Gavin Guile’s crazy reckless indomitable smile, but without the warmth.
“That’s not really freedom then, is it? Not for them,” Liv said.
“Are you ready for another truth, then, Aliviana? You learn so fast. Very well. Freedom isn’t the highest good. Power is. For without power, your freedom can be taken.” He smiled again. It was a hard smile, but this was a hard world.
Chapter 71
Ironfist was on his way to the White’s quarters on top of the tower when he saw Blackguards standing outside the Prism’s apartments. Since he’d just left Gavin, they could only be hers.
The commander knocked on the door.
“Come in,” the White said.
The White was in her wheeled chair. Before her, Gavin Guile’s room slave Marissia was on her knees, laying her head in the White’s lap. Tears streaked the room slave’s face, and the White was soothing her.
“Gavin Guile’s back. He’s one floor down,” Ironfist said. The sometimes fractious relationship between the White and the Prism didn’t need the additional strain of Gavin finding the White in his room. Gavin liked his private space.
Marissia hopped to her feet, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh! I cry once a year and he invariably—Mother, thank you. I will do as you’ve said.”
“Orholam bless you, child. We’ll leave now so we don’t make your life any more complicated than necessary,” Orea Pullawr said. “Commander?”
He wheeled her out into the hallway. It was much faster for him to do so, but it was also evidence of her growing frailty. Not two months ago, she would have angrily refused to let anyone push her around like she was an invalid.
Nor did she take over when they went down the hall. She seemed tired.
One Blackguard preceded them, and the other took their backs. Even here, they guarded.
“One thing I never considered about getting old,” the White said, as Ironfist rolled her in front of her desk and then released her, to sit opposite her. “It makes spying so much harder.”
“I thought that you had people for such things,” Ironfist said.
“You can never leave such things entirely in other hands. It puts you at the mercy of your own spymaster. Or spymistress, as the case may be.”
Spymistress? What? Did she mean—“Marissia?” Ironfist asked, incredulous. “She’s your—”
The White said nothing for a long moment, and Ironfist’s mind whirled at the implications. Marissia did have unfettered access to this floor at all times, but she could also move freely among the other slaves in the tower. Her position as a slave to the most important man in the world made her exist in a social gray zone: if needed, she could mix socially with the lowest scullery boy, or she could chide the richest merchant on Big Jasper. A smart woman would exploit the advantages of such a situation, and Ironfist knew that Marissia was definitely a smart woman.
“No, she’s not,” the White said finally. “But just now, you were thinking as I must think all the time. As Gavin must think.”
“That’s harder than juggling the odds of a rival pulling a good card,” Ironfist said.
“One gets better with practice. But I prattle.” She tented her hands in her lap, sat quietly. She glanced at his bare head, then back to his eyes. Waited.
Ironfist rubbed his bare head, the stubbly hairs growing in like stubborn weeds of faith he could cut but not uproot. If he couldn’t trust the White, who could he? Even if she was faithless. Of course, he was faithless now, too. Did that make him less trustworthy?
He laughed quietly to himself. Truth was, he didn’t know.
“I may be on the verge of losing my position. What was your big gamble?”
“Cards on the table, huh?” the White said.
“I at least appear to have very little to lose.”
“Those who fold have no right to see the cards of those who stay in the game,” the White said.
“Metaphors break down.”
The White was quiet for a long moment, staring into the depths of him. He was impassive under her gaze. “You’ve stopped wearing your ghotra. It’s hard to fail to notice such a thing. How should I react to that, Commander? Personally, or politically?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Politically, you may have just made it impossible for me to save you. You’ve gone apostate. Most people don’t wear the evidence of their faith on their heads—or take it off when they have doubts. You do. If the Black lists your apostasy as a reason to remove you from office, you’ll admit it’s true. So, politically, you’ve put the knife to your own throat.”
He hadn’t even thought of that. His religion—or lack thereof—wasn’t some public show. How could not the outer man reflect the inner?
“Of course, you could defang that by simply putting your damn hat back on. Explain to anyone who asks that you removed it in mourning for your lost, which is true. Partly. But you won’t do that.”
“To be a man is to bring together that which you should be and that which you are. Deception is darkness.”
“And did not Orholam himself set the world to spinning, so that there may be both times of light and times of darkness? The greater light and its nightly mirror do not shine on all the world constantly.”
“That’s generally understood to allow for moral exceptions to the rule in the case of war,” Ironfist said, a little stiffly.
“Do you think we have not been at war these sixteen years?” the White said quietly.
“Does being the White mean getting to define war as anything you want it to be?”
“You met Corvan Danavis, did you not?” she asked. “Oh yes, of course you did, at Garriston. He used to say, ‘Not all sharks and sea demons swim Ceres’ seas.’ ”
“We’re awash in metaphors, Mistress. I’m a simple man.”
“Simplicity has its own power, Harrdun. As well you know. Yes, then. Yes, being White means I decide what is war. And when to threaten it.” She smiled thinly.
Ironfist waited.
“As you know, I select the commander of the Blackguard, and the Black has the power to remove you. It’s meant to balance our power. Really, it’s meant to diminish mine. But what perhaps you don’t a
ppreciate is that after you are removed, I could simply appoint you again.”
“And he would remove me again.”
“Precipitating a crisis. But if you stayed, retained your quarters, continued giving orders, assigning shifts, how many of your Blackguards would abide by your choice and mine, over Carver Black’s?”
What she was proposing could precipitate civil war. Ironfist raised his hands. “Hold. Wait, wait, wait. I’m not worth the kind of carnage you’re inviting here.”
“No, you’re not.”
She wasn’t making sense. Was she finally going senile? No, the intensity in her desaturated blue, gray, and green eyes showed that nothing had shaken her deep intelligence.
“So what is it? I’m another front in your war?” Ironfist asked.
“Precisely. Carver Black doesn’t hate you. In fact, he likes you. Andross Guile has something over him. I haven’t ever been able to find out what it is, but we can put the problem back in his court: ask him if he wants to destroy the Blackguard, now, over his dirty laundry.”
“So you’re hoping Carver Black blinks.”
“That’s right,” the White said.
“Well, at least you realize that Andross Guile won’t.”
“Never.”
“I don’t want this on my head. I love my people. I don’t want to gamble with their lives. That’s a game for worse men.”
“Or women,” she said lightly. Meaning herself?
“Or women.” He refused to be taken in by her self-deprecation. Her charm. She was smarter than he was, fine. He didn’t have to play this game. “I am the best of the Blackguard for my position, but every man and woman is loyal to our task. Losing me is a serious loss, but not one from which the Blackguard cannot recover.” He stood. He was finished with this. He wouldn’t miss all of it.
“You assume your successor would be chosen from the Blackguard’s ranks.”
He blinked. “I suppose you can choose anyone you want. You aren’t going to choose someone bad for the job simply to spite me. You can threaten it now, but I know you too well. Once I’m gone, there’ll be no reason for you to hurt yourself.”
“Stop playing against me, you simpleton! Understand how Andross Guile works. After stripping you of your position, and disgracing you, he will use your disgrace to besmirch my judgment. He will already have the four votes he needs to pass an injunction circumscribing my authority by this little bit: he will then, through Carver, appoint your successor.”
“Surely—”
“It doesn’t stop there. Your successor, perhaps young Lord Jevaros—perfect because he’s a loyal idiot—will report his concerns about my deteriorating mental condition. Incidents will be arranged to make me look senile. My duties will be further circumscribed, and I will be strongly encouraged to withdraw until Sun Day.”
She was making guesses, of course, but they all made sense to Ironfist. “But… what does he want? Lord Guile, I mean? Why go to so much trouble? What’s his goal?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he simply wants control. I know this man. If he could, he would dissolve the Chromeria, dissolve the satrapies, renounce the Prism, and become emperor of the known world. I think he would hold that position for one day. One. Then he would feel either the triumph of obliterating all before him or the emptiness of holding power for no reason other than his own lust—and he would kill himself. Because there is no reason why he wants to rule. He simply believes he should. It irks him that his lessers should rule where he believes he ought.”
“You make it sound so simple, and empty.”
“Evil is simple and empty. Evil has no mysterious depths. We stare into a dark hole and fill it with our fears, but it is only a hole.”
“Do you believe in Orholam, or was that a necessary lie, too?”
“I have big questions for him; he hasn’t deigned to answer them.”
He’d believed something similar, as a young man. He thought Orholam heard the prayers of the great and the holy. He’d prayed with blood on his hands, so he hadn’t been heard. Excuses. He’d been making excuses for Orholam for more than twenty years. Because the alternative was too terrible. But here it was. He would believe lies no more.
“But I do believe,” the White said. “I believe profoundly, my friend.” She held him with her gaze, and he was reminded that this was a woman of will. Will great enough to become the White, and great enough to not use her magic for years and years.
“Would you lie to me?” he asked.
“Absolutely. But not about this.”
“You would turn me into a liar.”
“You would not be the first good man I’ve seen live a lie.”
“Riddles.”
“Perhaps.”
“You mean Gavin, presiding over all the rituals. He’s an atheist, isn’t he?” When he said “atheist,” it was a slur. He realized he said it as a slur out of force of habit. He’d always thought it the worst thing a man could be. And now he was one himself.
“I prefer to think that he’s struggling through a lack of faith,” she said carefully.
He sneered. He’d come up here to tell her about the cards and the knife, but now—all this was double-talk. If he didn’t deserve the full truth from her, then she didn’t deserve it of him.
There was a knock on the door. “Mistress,” one of the Blackguards, a stocky woman named Samite said, “now that the Prism has returned, the Spectrum is proceeding with that emergency meeting. We need to head down in ten minutes.”
The White nodded to her, dismissing her. She looked burdened, bitter, for one second. “Your people are kind to me, Commander. Telling me about ‘that emergency meeting’ in case I’d forgotten that we have to decide whether we go to war today. But such kindness is dangerous when my body is betraying me and the Red is already trying to paint me as lost in my dotage.”
“I’ll speak with her.”
“Delicately, if you will. I know she means well.” She turned back to Ironfist. “I’ve already told the Black that he can’t remove you. The Red hates you for reasons I don’t know and that you won’t tell me, but he can’t have you while I breathe.” She waved her hand, and that was that. Ironfist was saved. “Now. My bet. I can’t tell you what it was, but I can tell you who it was on. I bet everything on Gavin. I bet the world on him, and I may not live long enough to find out who wins.”
Ironfist exhaled. Since when did I become a keeper of secrets and teller of half-truths?
He fished in his pocket. He pulled out a white rock, the size of his hand. He tossed it on the White’s desk as if it were trash.
Her eyes went wide. “Commander, is that…?” She reached for it. “White luxin,” she whispered.
“Gavin drafted it at the Battle of Garriston. He doesn’t know he did it.”
She picked up the white luxin with trembling hands, and for the first time that Ironfist had ever seen, she quietly wept.
Lots of crying women today.
Chapter 72
“Aliviana, come, I have something for you,” the Color Prince said. He turned to the engineer in charge of the trebuchet. “Ten chits if you make it into the city on the first shot. But you owe me five if she doesn’t scream.”
The engineer bowed low, almost prostrating himself. The people still didn’t know how much deference to pay to the Color Prince.
The entire camp had turned out for this. Noon was coming, and everyone knew that noon was the deadline. The guns on the city’s walls were trained on them, but they hadn’t fired during the entire setup of the trebuchet, three hundred paces from the city’s walls. Some of the prince’s followers stayed farther away, fearing that the guns would open up and try to destroy the trebuchet first, despite the women and children of Ergion held hostage around its base. More, however, crowded close, wanting to see the spectacle for themselves, heedless of the danger.
Liv had joined them because the prince had asked her to. “I will not shield you from the realities of war, Aliviana. Thi
s is our path, and you must know it. I trust you with hard truths.” She caught his implication: Unlike her father. Unlike the Chromeria.
She would be worthy of that trust. So she watched, from close up. The crowds didn’t jostle her. Her violet and yellow drafter’s dress guaranteed that. Drafters were treated as lords and ladies. They had power, and power was a virtue.
“You said you had something for me, my prince?” Liv said.
“A letter came for you,” he said. “And before you ask, of course I read it.”
He gestured, and a steward brought a letter. Liv knew the handwriting. She felt tingles up her arms, up her neck. It was from her father.
The Color Prince said, “It’s time for you to decide who you are and who you will be, Aliviana Danavis.”
The engineers began cranking the great counterweight up into the air, sticking long staves into a wooden gear, ratcheting it down. The counterweight rose, slowly racing the sun, which was approaching its own zenith.
Liv opened the cracked seal: “My Dearest Aliviana, Light of my Eyes.” A rush of tears came to her eyes, just at seeing her father’s hand. When Kip had told her Corvan had died in Rekton, Liv’s world had ended. She blew out a slow breath, blinked.
The crowd was jubilant and nervous by turns. The cannons could open up at any moment, spraying death everywhere, or the gates might open in surrender, or in attack, or nothing at all might happen. Men laughed too loudly. Some placed wagers. Liv could hear the women who were in line to be thrown over the walls crying quietly. Quietly only because they were trying not to upset the children, who still had no idea what was happening.
She kept reading: “Daughter, please come home. I know you think I’ve forsaken my oaths. I have not. I can tell you no more in a letter that may be intercepted, but I will tell you when you come.” What he said was true, but it was infuriating, too. She’d been with him. She’d asked him—and he wouldn’t tell her what he was doing. And now he would?
Now that she wasn’t under his control.
Wood groaning, ropes straining, the trebuchet’s enormous counterweight made it to its height before the sun. The engineers didn’t leave off their work, though, rushing around checking how their machine was bearing up under the pressure, preparing the basket for the woman, warning the crowds before and behind the trebuchet to move back.