The Black Prism
Page 63

The move hadn’t made Gavin any friends, but it had left him in charge. Besides, he didn’t need friends. The two Blackguards at the lift looked at each other as he approached. The woman on the left was short but as thick as a bull. She said, “High Lord Prism, I notice you don’t have an escort. May I join you?”
Gavin grinned. “Since you ask so nicely,” he said.
They opened the lift for him, and in moments he was on the next level below his and the White’s floor. The Blackguards on watch blinked at his sole escort. Doubtless they knew the guard rotation, and knew she wasn’t supposed to be on Prism duty, nor was the Prism supposed to be guarded by only one Blackguard.
“High Lord Prism,” one of them said, a tall red/orange bichrome youth only twenty years old, thus quite talented. “May I accompany you?”
“Thank you, but no,” Gavin said. “You can’t protect me from what’s waiting here.”
Gavin had told Kip that the White tried to balance the Prism’s power, but he didn’t like it much when she did.
He stepped into the council room. The Colors were scattered around the table. For formal events, they would sit in order around the table: Sub-red, Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Superviolet, Black, Prism, White. For meetings like this one, however, the pull of sitting by friends or the lure of grabbing one of the more comfortable chairs outweighed the natural tendency to sit in the same spot every time. Gavin found the last spot, between the Superviolet, a tall, skin-and-bones coal-black Parian woman named Sadah, and the soft, lighter-skinned Ruthgari man with the beaded beard, Klytos Blue.
Gavin had told Kip that each Color represented a country, and that was mostly true. Each satrap or satrapah appointed one Color. It was the most important decision most rulers ever made. But the system had begun to break down even before the False Prism’s War, when Andross Guile had bribed and blackmailed his way into the Red seat, though the Blood Forest already had one Color. He’d been so audacious, he’d stolen that seat from Ruthgar, claiming that the Guiles’ sliver of swampland in Ruthgari made him eligible for the Ruthgari seat.
Of course, after the war, similar logic had been used to deprive Tyrea of a seat.
There were so many interlocking and overlapping layers of loyalty it was dizzying. Both the Red and the Green were Ruthgari and thus likely to unite on any issue concerning Ruthgar. But the Green was also cousins with Jia Tolver, an Abornean woman who was the Yellow. The Aborneans strangled both Parian and Ruthgari trade through the Narrows, so anything to do with trade would see them at each other’s throats, but on anything else they might try to form a bloc. The Sub-red was a Blood Forester, who were allies now with their stronger neighbors the Ruthgari, but her parents had been killed in the war by the Green’s brothers. And on it went. Every noble family in the Seven Satrapies did everything it could to get at least one son or daughter into the Chromeria, if for nothing else than to try to watch their backs.
In turn, everyone in the Spectrum did all they could to protect themselves. Family bonds, clan bonds, national bonds, color bonds, and ideological bonds cut every which way. The Colors were political creatures as much as they were magical. To be named a Color took a certain amount of chromaturgical aptitude—the White saw to that—but after that bar was reached, not a few of these seats had found inhabitants at the same time that donkey-trains loaded with gold had made their way into royal houses. Gavin knew it had been thus when his own father had joined.
The White, in her wheeled chair, said, “I call this meeting to order. Let the record show that all Colors except for Red are in attendance.” They hated that. Hated that they couldn’t get rid of Andross Guile. They hated that in defiance of all convention, he hadn’t attended a meeting in five years but still insisted that his votes be counted. They hated what his having his vote delivered by messenger said about how little he valued their opinions. No eloquence would ever move Andross Guile. He would see and weigh every issue alone, and decide, regardless of the mummery of these Spectrum meetings. But they feared him, too. The White said, “Lord Prism, you have called this meeting, so I turn over the proceeding to you.”
She thought she was thwarting him. That he’d grown too independent. That he might become dangerous if she didn’t yank the leash.
Careful, Orea. When choked, dogs go docile—but wolves go wild.
Gavin’s relationship with the Spectrum had always been thorny. Of course, when he’d been recuperating after Sundered Rock, they’d stripped him of his title of promachos, taking control of the armies away from him, as custom dictated. But they hadn’t known whether he would allow it. Still learning his new guise, he had, but he didn’t care much for any of the Colors personally. Nor did they care for him. He’d lived too long, become too powerful. He didn’t need them, and that scared them.
They hated his father. They hated the Guiles, and they stymied Gavin whenever they could.
Patience, Gavin. Plenty of time for purpose six. Plenty of room to maneuver. You are Andross Guile’s son.
“We need to release the city of Garriston immediately, pull out all of our men, and give it back to King Garadul,” Gavin said. “Preferably with an apology that we didn’t do it sooner.”
Silence. Followed by awkward silence.
Klytos Blue chuckled uncertainly. When no one else joined him, he fell silent.
“King?” the White asked.
“That’s what he’s calling himself.” Gavin didn’t elaborate.
Sadah Superviolet said, “Surely you’re not serious, Lord Prism. The governorship transfers to Paria in a few weeks. It’s our right. People have made plans. Ships are sailing already. If we must have this conversation, let us have it two years from now.”
“Absolutely not,” Delara Orange said. She was a forty-year-old bichrome, with great sagging breasts and the red and orange in her eyes pushing to the very edge of her irises. She was an Atashian. Atash got the governorship right after Paria’s. “Paria took the very first rotation, when there were actually a few treasures left in the city. And you looted it all.”
“We also had to repair a city that had been burned to the ground and care for its injured and ill. We took only what was an appropriate recompense.”
“Stop,” Gavin said, before it could go any further. “You’re having the wrong fight. This isn’t about who has the governorship, in what order, or for how long. It’s been sixteen years since we crushed Tyrea. They still don’t have a representative in this room. There are fewer Tyreans in the Chromeria every year. Why is that? Have they suddenly stopped bearing drafters there? Or is it because we have demanded a tribute from them so ruinous they can’t support their drafters, which in turn impoverishes their land further? Then we hold Garriston, their main port and their largest city, and your governors tax every orange and pomegranate and melon. I’ve been to Garriston, and it’s a shadow of its former greatness. The great irrigation canals are full of sand. The fields are worked by women and children or no one, and there’s not a drafter to be found.”
“You pity them?” Delara Orange asked. “When my brothers rise from the dead and the Castle of Ru is rebuilt, I’ll feel pity for Garriston. They joined Dazen. It was their war that killed tens of thousands. I saw them cast Satrapah Naheed’s two-year-old son down the Great Steps. I saw them cut open her pregnant belly, take her babe, and make bets on how far down the steps one of their men could throw the screaming child. They cut off the satrapah’s nose and ears and breasts and arms and legs and threw her down after. While we watched. The babe made it all the way to the last step, in case you’re curious. I got some of its brain on my dress. I wanted to try to catch it, but I didn’t move. No one did. Those are the people you wish us to have mercy on? Or maybe it’s the people who sank the entire refugee flotilla, which had not a single drafter or armed man on board?”