Gunner was Ilytian.
Gavin had found the man amusing, before he was under his power. Thought it was funny to play with Gunner’s mind by stoppering the man’s musket rather than killing him back when he sank his ship near Garriston. If he’d killed him, he wouldn’t be here now.
Funny how the mind can wander, even when rowing. Gavin’s frequently bloodied hands were wrapped now in cotton. He had a new empathy for Kip, who’d burned his left hand falling into a fire before the Battle of Garriston. His hands were agony every day. He’d thought he had a man’s hands before, rough and callused. He’d given himself too much credit.
“Win or die,” Leonus shouted.
The slaves didn’t shout the response. They hated Leonus.
“You worthless shit sacks! You shout back, or I’ll keelhaul every last one of you! Boy!” he shouted to the young man who had taken his old job as foreman’s second. “Whip that line. Now!”
The boy hesitated.
“Now!”
The boy lashed the whip across the bare backs of one of the lower rows. They cried out in pain. More than necessary, Gavin thought, but the boy hadn’t hit them as hard as Leonus liked.
“Win or die!” Leonus shouted.
“Row to hell!” the slaves replied.
“Never slack!”
“Row to hell!”
“Scratch the back of Shadow Jack!” Leonus shouted.
“Row to hell!”
“Row right back!” he shouted.
The drums began pounding out their tempo, and Leonus disappeared to the next slave deck.
“Don’t think I’m going to make it through this one,” Nine said.
“You never think you’re going to make it through, Itchy.”
“This time’s different. I can feel it.”
As before, with scores of men sweating in the tight confines of the rowing deck, it got hot fast. It was a bright, calm day outside, which meant this would be a clean, simple race to the death.
The drums pounded their steady tempo, and Gavin rowed. And rowed. And rowed. Twenty minutes. The boy went around and gave them water. At least he didn’t smash their lips with the long-handled cup. Not on purpose, anyway. Thirty minutes.
Finally, Leonus poked his ugly head belowdecks. “Drums, corso!”
The drums picked up, and Gavin settled into the new tempo happily. Happily. How strange was that? There was something oddly freeing about having no decisions to make. Go when they say go. Stop when they say stop. Eat when they say eat. Avoid the lash. Take your double serving of strongwine.
What am I going to do if I get free anyway, Karris? I can’t draft anymore. Will you still love me when you find out I’m not what I was?
He could imagine the looks in people’s eyes, the pity. He had been respected, loved, and feared in every corner of the Seven Satrapies, but the foundation of his power had always been his drafting. He’d been so much better than everyone else—so effortlessly good—that he’d become nothing else. He wasn’t a man; he was a drafter. You couldn’t think about Gavin without knowing he was the Prism, that he was drafting. That he was the best. The best now, probably the best in hundreds of years. Without that, he was… what?
An arrogant figurehead who ritually murdered scores of drafters every year. A hothead who threw young women off his balcony when they displeased him. And got away with it.
Other drafters made the transition from magical power to political power with no problem. The White had done it gracefully, his father less so. But Gavin? It wasn’t in him. And it was one thing to stop drafting because you believed you still had service to give; it was quite another to not be able to. A man might take an oath of celibacy and be respected; a man castrated was at best pitied.
And there was no hiding the loss. By this Sun Day, it would be over, for good or ill. He would either draft while performing the Sun Day rituals, or fail to do so, or if he didn’t make it back to the Chromeria by then, someone else would be named Prism. It was that simple. How far away was that now? Four months?
Karris, my life will be over in four months. No matter what. I’m so sorry. I wasted so much time. I wanted us to have a life. I wanted us to have children, to see you holding new life in your hands, to be whole with you.
Gavin suddenly wanted to vomit, and it wasn’t from the exertion.
The drummer sped the tempo again, and Gavin didn’t care. And again, the last sprint, but his mind was still, impenetrable, the actions all at a long remove.
Then, a shouted order, and the slaves stowed their oars with unhurried precision.
With the crash, Gavin was thrown out of his reverie. Wood screaming on wood. Oars snapping like kindling. Men shouting in pain and fear and rage. Muskets rattling. A cannon booming. The stench of black powder and fear. Men thrown off their benches. Gavin found himself staring at a gap-toothed sailor in the other ship. The man was standing up, having been thrown down by the collision. He had a slow match in hand, and was right behind a charged cannon.
Gavin flung out a hand, willing a spike of blue to fly into the man’s eyes.
Nothing.
The man looked at him quizzically, then an oar cracked his face. He dropped, but someone else grabbed the slowmatch.
The ships continued their slide past each other, and the cannon boomed. Wood exploded, tearing the steps off and filling the slaves’ deck with burning hot blinding smoke. The Bitter Cob’s cabin boy staggered past Gavin’s bench in the smoke, twisted metal protruding from his back.
Another cannon boomed, tearing a hole upward, letting dazzling sunlight in, illuminating the roiling black smoke. The very air seemed on fire. All the slaves were coughing, lying down, abandoning their task of stabbing their counterparts with the oars.
Gavin heard the clatter of the grappling hooks at the end of the boarding nets as they were thrown across the now widening gap between the ships. Pirates were shouting, and the distinctive crack of Captain Gunner’s musket sounded with a frequency that shouldn’t have been possible. Shouted orders, and the clatter of feet across the decks over their heads, and the pirates boarded the other ship.
Then, abruptly, the Bitter Cob was quiet. The wind blowing through the oar-holes and the two big holes from cannon fire began dispersing the smoke. The slaves began sitting up, assessing the damage, even as screams for mercy and shouts of rage sounded from the other ship just paces away.
The cabin boy was dead, or unconscious and on his way to dead, lying in the center aisle. A young kid, and not possessed of good looks or virtue, but not deserving this, regardless.
The stairs up to the second deck were half torn off. Half a row of slaves had been pulverized. Blood slicked the deck in the back rows.
Before Gavin could even complete an inventory, someone swung down from the boarding nets and dropped in through the hole the cannon had blasted. He clambered for a bit, almost losing his balance. Any of the slaves nearby could have knocked him into the sea, but they were all frozen with surprise. The man was light-skinned, blond, dressed richly. Gavin didn’t recognize him immediately as one of the crew. Worse, it didn’t look like any of the other slaves did, either. He wasn’t one of the Bitter Cob’s sailors, and he had a sword.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “If you’ll row for me, I’ll free you.” He let that sink in for a second, then said, “I’ll free you now if you’ll help me throw off the boarding nets. But quick!”
With his voice, Gavin placed him immediately. The young man could only be Antonius Malargos, a cousin of Tisis Malargos, who had become the Green briefly, before Gavin had deposed her, and a nephew of Dervani Malargos, who had become a god briefly, before Gavin had killed him.
“Who’s with me?” Antonius asked.
A slave raised his manacled hand, and Antonius’s pale skin lit with red luxin. He filled the lock with red luxin and then set it alight, burning it out. It burned the slave’s wrist, too, but he was free.
“Quickly! We have only moments,” Antonius
said. “Most of the pirates are on the other ship. We kill the few men still here, cut the boarding nets, and push off. I’ll free you all, I swear it on Orholam’s name.”
It was a decent plan, if a desperate one. The other galley didn’t have any oars on one side. If Antonius could seize the Bitter Cob and throw off the boarding nets, he’d have a good chance. If he made it ten paces, he’d probably make it back to port.
And as a Malargos, he had no reason to make sure Gavin made it home alive. In his place, Gavin didn’t think he’d bring Antonius home. His family’s mortal enemy, delivered into his hand. Gavin’s heart despaired.
He saw Leonus had fallen between two slaves’ benches. The man had struggled to his hands and knees. He was bleeding a stream from his scalp. Looked worse than it was: scalp wounds bleed heavily. But he did look woozy. Should Gavin warn Antonius?
A slave behind Gavin raised manacled hands. Antonius sighed with relief that another slave was taking his offer. He began walking back toward him. His eyes fell on Gavin, then moved on. No recognition. The Prism was dead. This bearded creature in rags and filth was nothing.
Gavin felt sudden hope that he might live, and a sense of the most profound divorce from himself he’d ever known. Antonius had seen Gavin in person before, and seen his face reproduced in a thousand paintings, etchings, and mosaics. And he didn’t see him. He saw a slave. Gavin had thought himself inseparable from his power, from his title, from his position. He wasn’t even inseparable from his own face.
Antonius stopped. Looked at Gavin again quizzically. His eyes widened. Gavin missed whatever happened on the boy’s face next because he was looking at the boy’s raised sword. So much revenge for the Malargos family, that close.
Gavin knew death, and he watched it coming, unblinking.
Antonius dropped to his knees. “Your Holiness? You live!”
Gavin’s eyes snapped back to the boy’s. Far from thirsty for vengeance, if anything, Antonius looked on the verge of tears. Tears of worship, adoration, hope.
A child, not bound by what his parents hated. An innocent, putting his faith in a man he’d never met.
“Your Holiness, let’s get these chains off you!”
How long had it been since Gavin had seen such goodness? How long since he’d felt it himself? Too long, and now it was too—
Too late, Gavin saw the movement. Leonus lurched to his feet behind Antonius. Gavin’s hand shot out to stop him—and was jerked short as he reached the end of his chain, the manacle biting into his wrist, bloodying it. Worse, stopping it. But all Gavin saw was Leonus, crashing into Antonius’s back, blade first. He tackled the young man into Gavin, stabbing repeatedly. Gavin was carried off the back of his bench by their momentum, the bench cutting his knees out from under him. The oar overhead and his manacles kept him from falling all the way to the ground, as his oarmates first were caught unprepared, and then tried to help drag Gavin out of harm’s way.
Gavin couldn’t move fast enough. He pulled the bandages from his hands, unraveling them as fast as possible, and lashed out with a knee. He missed because he was held too far away, then he kicked out with one bare foot at Leonus. Somehow, he hit the man in the throat.
Leonus rolled back on his heels, gasping. It gave Gavin a split second, and he used it to drape his bandages down around Leonus’s neck. Once, twice, Gavin wrapped them, and then he yanked. It pulled the man off balance toward him.
Instantly abandoning his plan to strangle the man, Gavin hugged Leonus’s head against his chest. With his twisted spine, Leonus’s neck had grown thick as a bull’s with muscle. Gavin whipped his torso left and right, left and right. He couldn’t hear any crack of the neck breaking, didn’t feel it, so he whipped back and forth until he was certain Leonus wasn’t moving. He was a beast, and the rage was all.
And he was too late.
He released Leonus, unwrapped the bandages, and heaved his foul body into the aisle. He looked at Antonius’s body lying between the benches.
Lying between the benches… and blinking up at Gavin. “I think I owe my aunt Eirene an apology,” the boy said, very much alive. He spread one of the cut gaps in his tunic, showing a coat of the finest Ilytian mesh-steel beneath it. “She gave me this for my birthday. I asked for a racehorse. I complained.”
“F-fuck,” Fukkelot said, impressed.
Antonius jumped to his feet, shaking it off. He began patting his pockets, looking for something. “My spectacles. My red spectacles! Where are they? I can’t burn open your manacles without them!”
The slaves began looking around furiously. Suddenly, freedom was this close—and with Leonus dead, it suddenly seemed real.
“Ah!” someone cried out. He lifted a mangled frame, the red lenses shattered to dust and tiny bits nowhere near big enough to draft through. There was blood on the deck—could it be enough? No, there wasn’t enough light. To Gavin’s eyes, it was a black pool.
Then Orholam stood. He lifted a hand. He held the manacle key.
Chapter 31
Arys Greenveil rose from the bed where her new lover lay spent. She drew a silk robe around her heavily pregnant belly. Child number thirteen didn’t seem to want to leave her womb yet. Stubborn, like his mother. Her own mother had taught her that lovemaking would help convince a child to come to the light, and Arys had no baseline to say her mother was wrong—she’d tried it with every pregnancy. With her third, Jalen, her climax agonies had melded directly to labor pains, and Jalen was the sweetest of her children by far.
But this boy, number thirteen—the number of Orholam added to the number of man—he was going to be special, she knew it. Just as she knew it was going to be a boy. She moved to her desk and began reading her correspondence. The correspondence never ended for Arys Sub-red. Letters from her satrap, of course, but also letters from family begging favors, from family friends begging favors, from friends of family friends begging favors. There were people asking favors for things she couldn’t control in a hundred years. Her secretary, mercifully, separated all the beggars into stacks, and usually did an excellent job of it, but there were things a woman had to do herself.
Arys kept her own lists of favors granted and favors owed, and when she could, she matched those back and forth, trading up favors so that the right people would owe her for times such as this. Her home satrapy, Blood Forest, was going to be invaded, perhaps within weeks. The news wasn’t encouraging. Against orders, General Azmith was preparing to make a grand stand at a town named Ox Ford on the Ao River. Her sources didn’t think much of the man, or of the plan.
Atash had fallen as fast as a bard’s pants, barely slowing the Color Prince’s advance. If this wild gamble at Ox Ford didn’t work, her own people were next. Arys would do anything she had to do to save her people.
She looked at one of her personal letters. It was from her sister, Ela. Ela was at least as passionate as Arys, and not half as wise. Ela claimed that Gavin Guile had seduced and murdered her daughter, Ana. She begged, demanded, ordered, and begged again that Arys do everything in her power to avenge her niece.
Not that Arys had been sitting still. As soon as she’d heard Ana had died, she’d begun investigating. Of one thing she was certain: Gavin hadn’t seduced Ana; Ana had been trying to seduce Gavin. According to her roommate, Ana had tried half a dozen times despite increasingly firm rebuffs. The roommate had also said that Ana had been under intense pressure from her mother Ela to seduce Gavin, though that had taken some prodding to get out of the frightened girl. Whatever had happened in that room, Ana, the damned fool girl, had gone there of her own accord, and she shouldn’t have been there. The Blackguards on duty had sworn, at least three times, that Gavin had screamed in fury at the girl and she’d jumped off the balcony in terror.
Ana had been a pretty girl, and love her though she did, Arys had thought she was spoiled horribly. When people had less than half a dozen children, they always spoiled them. Ana had probably never had a man scream at her in her life. And yet, jump
ing off a balcony?
Was Ana that stupid? Arys didn’t think so, but there was no way to prove it, was there? There were three witnesses, and they all said the same thing. Arys had hired the most beautiful courtesan she could find, and paid the woman a ruinous sum to seduce one of the young Blackguards who’d been there, a Gill Greyling. The courtesan had seduced him, got him drunk, and asked him about the event. His story hadn’t changed. The courtesan said she thought he was lying, but if a man wouldn’t let go of a lie when drunk and blinded by lust, there was no shaking it from him. It was a dead end, a sadly literal one.
Damn you, sister. What was the worst that could be true of Gavin Guile here? That he got furious at the daughter that you’d sent to seduce him repeatedly, and when she’d succeeded in getting into his bed and nearly ruining his relationship with Karris White Oak, whom everyone knew he’d loved for fifteen years, Gavin threw her off the balcony? If that was what had happened, Ela was as responsible for it as anyone.
Not that Arys wouldn’t make Gavin pay for it, too, if she ever found out that was true. Family was everything. The Greenveil motto was Fásann Ár Gciorcal, Our Circle Grows. ‘Circle’ was understood to be family, and territory, and friends, and influence. Orholam knew that Arys had done her part on that account, and more. But anyone shrinking that circle would pay—damn it, Ana. Arys had liked the girl, mostly, though Ana had tried her luck seducing men who had been interested in Arys herself. Shooting high, and sometimes artlessly. How, though, was one to object to will in a drafter? Ana had been pretty enough to mostly go unpunished.
And found punishment too great by far.
But Gavin Guile was out of reach for the time being. Someday, Arys would ask him herself. Certainly she would before she voted his way ever again—but it wouldn’t affect her vote in the end. She was practical, eminently practical. As practical as any sub-red had ever been, she liked to think.