“I know. Yes, I am the product of this breeding myself. But now I am Prism, and what I do today isn’t for my family; it is for the Seven Satrapies. Today, your war is finished. Now I ask again, will any join me at the table of peace?” He swept his hand, as if in invitation toward them.

None did. Gavin, who moved the world on the fulcrum of his desires, Gavin, loser and leader, drafter deceiver, exile executioner, Gavin was being ignored.

He stared at the sun, as if praying. It was one of those white-hot days, the delta air was thicker than blood, the sounds of the city coming in even to the center of the hippodrome. He prayed, but he wasn’t praying. He was filling himself with power.

“So be it,” Gavin said. He swept his hand again, and this time, blue luxin spikes shot out along the superviolet guide-wires he’d place at the throats of each man and woman in the first rank of the circle. Through the center of each throat, and into the center of each spine.

The front person in each family’s column dropped dead.

It was so sudden, so stark and brutal and so quiet that no one said a word. Many didn’t even know why the people had fallen.

“War seems so random,” Gavin shouted. “Does it not? Who lives, who dies? It’s like a lottery. But in my lottery, only you who are responsible for this war will die. I think the common folk will prefer this greatly. Now! Who will join me at the table of peace?”

For a moment, shock prevailed as every family looked at their dead. In each case, “Orholam” had picked the most pugnacious, the bitterest, the most hateful or guiltiest person in the whole family to be first in line. Some families had to be happy to be rid of their most troublesome member, and far more so to see the worst of the other families die.

But these were families bred to war, in many cases literally so.

“Are you insane?!” a Willow asked.

“You killed my father!” a sixteen-year-old, fiery-haired Green Apple shouted. Damned Blood Foresters and their tempers. The young man pulled out his belt dagger, a wild look in his eyes.

“Your father was a fool, and you’ll be a dead fool if you attack me,” Gavin told him.

“Ahhh!” The young man charged the platform.

Some people simply don’t react well to surprise.

Gavin astounded everyone by turning his back. “There’s no need for anyone else to die,” he shouted. Behind his back, the rising young Blackguard Watch Captain Ironfist materialized from nowhere and cut the young man down before he reached Gavin.

It was so nonsensical that Gavin was swept into sudden fury. “Sit at the goddamn table, and no one else needs to die!” he roared.

Another pulse and another row of men and women died. He’d almost forgotten the sound of projectiles thunking into human flesh.

They broke and fled across the sands. He’d known they would. The damned cowards. Like he’d never set up an ambush in the course of the Prisms’ War. He still thought of it as the Prisms’ War as the losers did, though he didn’t think he’d failed once to call it the False Prism’s War when he spoke of it.

He was so furious he thought of waiting until they were in its teeth to trigger the trap. No. No. Enough killing. The point was to shock them into submission, not to turn the few survivors against him forever.

He reached into the superviolet he’d laid under the sand out in a great ring and pushed luxin into it, hard. A great spike-toothed ring of death leapt out of the sand in a fence around all the nobles. Green and blue and yellow luxin twined, shivered, begged the nobles to impale themselves on the barbs.

The nobles tripped over each other, literally falling and smashing into each other as they stopped.

Beyond the glowing wall of death, blocking each exit from the hippodrome, they saw stony-eyed Blackguards, weapons unsheathed, in the loose, easy posture of killers, luxin readied.

“No one else need die!” Gavin shouted. “Get back to your lines.”

His Blackguards and the drafters he’d brought echoed his command, circling outside the wall, bellowing at the people inside, “Back to your line. Now! Move!”

Others were gentler, but the result was the same. In minutes, the lines had reformed. Now, more quietly, Gavin said, “Would you rather die than have peace? No one else in your family or on your lands has to die.”

“If I take your offer,” one grandmother said, “I’ll be setting myself against all of them. How is my little family to stand against the might of the Willows on one side and the Malargoses on the other?”

“Whoever takes my peace gains my protection,” Gavin said. “Whoever breaks my peace gains swift and brutal death.” He swept a hand slowly across the columns, and this time set glowing yellow targets where the next missiles would fly. In the front of many of the columns were children, or favorite aunts, favorite sons. Orholam forgive the families if they were too stubborn even now. Orholam forgive him.

He held the tense silence until someone was about to speak, and then he swung a hand so fast at the table that the entire crowd flinched, thinking it another attack. He sent out waves of sub-red so that the air around him shimmered, a trick he’d honed in the war to make it look like he was radiating power, and roared, pointing at the table, “This is the end of your war. Who. Will. Sit?”

Over the bodies of the dead obstinate and the dead murderers and the dead proud, they made peace. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been quick. Not all justice could be done: how far back does one go with judgment, after what horror in the chain does one say, ‘All before this is forgiven’? But peace had been forged. Hostages were exchanged, and hostages were sent to the Chromeria where Gavin would have personal oversight of them. In the years that followed, a test of the Prism’s Peace had come, of course. It had come from a Guile cousin, Marcos-Sevastian Guile, who’d exacted vengeance for a wartime rape in like fashion, doubtless thinking his blood connection to Gavin gave him extra leeway. If he’d had a shred of the Guile intellect, he’d have known it meant exactly the opposite.

Marcos-Sevastian had been found mutilated in the town square, limbs piled neatly nearby, a sign propped under his bloody chin: “So too to all who break the Prism’s Peace.”

And later, Gavin had needed to send an emissary to a Ruthgari lord using his economic might to ruin one of his vassals who’d turned on him early that day.

That had required only a stern talk. Blood and words. Peace by sword and will.

Eirene Malargos had been the first of the heads of the most powerful families to sign.

Now Gavin said to her, “Do you think that lottery was random? Your uncle Perakles was a warrior coward. Happy to take insult, happy to send men to die, but would never dare the line himself. And his wife Thera? You think that vicious heifer had it in her to lead a great family to a picnic, much less to a peace? Think of those who died that day: they were—except that regrettable young Green Apple idiot with the knife—exactly the people who couldn’t countenance peace, or who had done such horrific things the other families couldn’t countenance peace while they lived. If that was Orholam’s hand, it was his hand working through me. And my mother. It was she who helped me sift the nobles and the conns and the banconns. Only she knew them all well enough to know. She selected you, Eirene. Do you remember the moment at the table, when they wanted you to be the hostage at the Chromeria, because Tisis was too young? My mother picked you to lead your family. Your lottery number was her choice. So you can decide if you owe me everything or nothing, but your life and your position, those you owe to my mother.”