“You’re letting in light,” Grinwoody said. “Are you trying to kill my lord?”

“No, no, I’m—” I’m always apologizing. “I’m coming in.” He stepped forward, through several layers of heavy tapestries that blocked light from the room.

The air inside the room was stale, still, hot. It reeked of old man. And it was impossibly dark. Kip began sweating instantly.

“Come here,” a raspy voice said. It was low, gravelly, like Lord Guile hadn’t spoken all day.

Kip moved forward with little steps, sure he’d trip and disgrace himself. It was like a dragon’s den.

Something touched his face. He flinched. Not a cobweb, a feathery light touch. Kip stopped. He had somehow expected Andross Guile to be an invalid, seated in a wheeled chair perhaps, like a dark mirror of the White. But this man was standing.

The hand was firm, though with few calluses. It traced Kip’s chubby face, felt the texture of his hair, the curve of his nose, pressed his lips, went against the grain of Kip’s incipient beard. Kip winced, terribly aware of the pimples he had where his beard was coming in.

“So you’re the bastard,” Andross Guile said.

“Yes, my lord.”

Out of nowhere, something nearly tore Kip’s head off. He crashed into the wall so hard he would have broken something if it hadn’t been covered in layers of tapestries, too. He fell to the carpeted floor, his cheek burning, ears ringing.

“That was for existing. Never shame this family again.”

Kip stood unsteadily, too surprised to even be angry. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but a blow out of the darkness hadn’t been it. “My apologies for being born, my lord.”

“You have no idea.”

There was silence. The darkness was oppressive. Whatever you do, Gavin had said, don’t make him an enemy. Could it get any hotter in here?

“Get out,” Andross Guile said finally. “Get out now.”

Kip left, having the distinct feeling that he’d failed.

Chapter 15

The Color Prince was rubbing his temples. Liv Danavis couldn’t take her eyes off of him. No one could. The man was practically carved of pure luxin. Blue plates covered his forearms, made spiky gauntlets for his fists. Woven blue luxin made up much of his skin, with yellow flowing in rivers beneath the surface, constantly replenishing the rest. Flexible green luxin made up his joints. Only his face was human, and barely at that. His skin was knotted with burn scars, and his eyes—halos so broken as to be absent—were a swirl of every color, not just his irises, but the whites as well. Right now, those sclera swirled blue, then yellow as he sat on the great chair in the audience chamber of the Travertine Palace, deciding how to split up the city he’d just conquered—and found nearly empty.

“I want the twelve lords of the air to oversee redistribution of the city. Lord Shayam will preside. First, the plunder. Those who fled Garriston took almost nothing with them—it’s all here. Some of it will travel with the army, but the rest shouldn’t be left to rot. Sell what can be sold, and distribute the rest in the most equitable way possible among the remaining Garristonians. The twelve lords are to decide who among the new settlers will be given leases to which properties. The richer areas and homes will require a fee up front; the poorer will be allowed six months before they begin paying.

“Lady Selene,” he said, turning to a blue/green bichrome who hadn’t yet broken the halo. She was Tyrean, with wavy dark hair and a dusky complexion, striking but odd, eyes too far apart, small mouth. She curtsied. “You’re in charge of all the greens until we leave the city. Six weeks. In that time, I expect you to dredge the key irrigation canals and repair the locks on the river. I want this city to flower next spring. The first rains of autumn may come any day. Consult with Lord Shayam. New plants will need to be brought in, perhaps soil as well. Do what you can with the labor provided in the time we have.”

Lady Selene curtsied deeply and left immediately.

And on it went, all morning. Liv sat among five advisers to the Color Prince’s left. Other than those advisers, no one else was allowed into the great hall. The prince wanted few people to see the entirety of his plans. Why Liv was one of the privileged few, she had no idea. She was the daughter of General Corvan Danavis, and the Color Prince had made no secret of the fact that he hoped he could recruit Gavin’s old enemy to his side, but Liv thought it was more than that. She’d switched sides before the Battle of Garriston, even fighting for the army trying to reclaim the city—but she’d done it in return for the Color Prince saving her friends. She didn’t deserve this kind of trust.

But she did find the whole thing fascinating. Often, the prince would call forth a courtier to give him more information on some point. He cared nothing for previous laws, and little for how things had been done traditionally, but he showed a keen interest in commerce and trade and taxation and agriculture: all the things needed to provide for his people and his army.

Summoning his military commanders, he elevated one of his most talented young commanders to general, and then tasked him with securing Tyrea’s roads and rivers. He wanted trade to be able to flow unfettered up and down the whole of the Umber River, and bandits to be stamped out mercilessly.

In some ways, Liv knew, it was merely trading many bandits for one. The prince’s men would doubtless collect taxes just as the bandits charged passage fees. But if they did it fairly, and didn’t murder the farmers and traders for their goods, the country would still be better off, whatever you called it.

He set more greens and yellows to clear the river itself, under their own command. If the prince was a bad man, he was a bad man taking a long view, because even though Liv didn’t understand everything that he was ordering, it was clear to her that he was sacrificing a huge number of his drafters and fighting men for the benefit of Tyrea. In the long run, her cynical superviolet nature told her, that would benefit him. An army on the march doesn’t make its own food, and can’t always count on plunder to pay its men, so having a strong economic base would magnify his power later.

“Lord Arias,” the Color Prince said, “I want you to select a hundred of your priests, young enough to be zealous, old enough to have absorbed the basics, and send them out to every satrapy to spread the good news of the coming freedom. Concentrate on the cities. Send natives where possible. Let them know what kind of opposition they’ll face. Expect martyrs in Dazen’s cause, and begin preparing another wave of zealots. I want regular reports, and send handlers with them. We’ll contract the Order of the Broken Eye where persecution is too great, yes?”

Lord Arias bowed. He was Atashian, with his people’s typical bright blue eyes, olive skin, and a plaited, beaded beard. “My prince, how would you like us to proceed on Big Jasper and in the Chromeria itself?”

“The Chromeria you leave alone. Others will handle that. Big Jasper should be handled with utmost care. I want our people there to be more eyes and ears than mouths, you understand? Your best people only on Big Jasper. I want them to grumble in the taverns and the markets, or join those who are already grumbling, barely whispering that our cause might have some merit. Identify those with grievances whom we might recruit, but take greatest care. They’re not fools there. Expect the Chromeria to try to plant spies.”