There were only perhaps twenty five-color polys in the Chromeria. Maybe a few more still in training. If this boy was cocky, it was for good reason.

Insufferable.

“You lose a fight?” Liv asked. How rude!

“Failed an assassination attempt, actually. Took a punch in the face. And got beaten for my failure when I got back. After swimming through shark-infested waters.” He smiled.

“You’re joking.”

“Terrible sense of humor, if I were. It’s not very funny, is it?”

“You’re serious?”

“Second time’s the charm, I guess. Come, we need to get you out of those rag—those clothes and into something more becoming.”

He was her tutor, put over her by Lord Omnichrome himself, so Liv supposed that meant she had to obey him. She shrugged and followed him through the city. The warehouse wasn’t far from the Travertine Palace, because it felt safer to be close to the soldiers. Being a woman alone during wartime meant never being off your guard.

But as Liv followed Zymun, she saw that his garb was better than armor. “Is everyone so afraid of drafters here?” she asked.

“Afraid? They respect us, which is only right, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so? Ah. So this is why you needed a tutor.”

Well that was patronizing, and Liv didn’t appreciate it one bit.

“The Chromeria makes slaves, Liv. It depends on making those it trains being so indebted to them that you become at best an indentured servant—with the term of your indenture being the rest of your life. A slave, in other words. The Free reject that. We recognize instead the natural order as it is. Did you choose to be born a great beauty? Of course not. But you are. You can do with that what you will. Similarly, you were born a drafter. We can wish that all were born with our gifts, and the Color Prince is investigating how this might be done. But the fact remains, we are special. We have a gift that other men and women don’t. We didn’t do anything to earn that gift—we can’t choose to be drafters. But we are. We don’t ask those who have gifts to chain themselves, as we don’t ask those who are skilled in running to get fat so they don’t make us feel bad for being slow. We are what we are, as wild and free as nature made us. When you walk the streets as a drafter, men know that if they accost you, you can kill them. They can fear that or simply respect it like they’d respect a woman carrying a pistol. With the advantage, of course, being that a pistol only has one shot.”

They passed workers clearing rubble-strewn streets and finally arrived at a little store undamaged in the fighting. An old woman greeted her. “So good to have business! Thank you, thank you, oh, and so beautiful you are! A marvel I’ll make you. I have an order for three dresses, yes?” she asked Zymun.

“If that’s what Lord Omnichrome ordered,” Zymun said.

“Very well then, strip down,” she told Liv.

Liv looked at her, then over at Zymun, who showed no inclination to leave. “Do you mind?” she asked him.

He looked her up and down, grinning mischievously. “Very much, but as you wish. Can’t fault me for trying.”

He stepped outside and left her in the capable hands of the seamstress. The woman took her measurements quickly, compared it to her height, had her turn around a few times, and then allowed her to dress. She made three quick sketches and showed them to Liv. “Everything is to be the finest possible for you, my lady. This first will be wool, but it’s a goat’s wool from the Abornean mountains. Warm, but so soft you won’t believe it.”

“That sounds…” Wonderful? Amazing? “… expensive.” Liv hated herself for saying it, but she’d been poor for so long, she couldn’t help it.

“Ha! That’s not the start of it. I’m doing the trim of your silk dress with true murex purple. The finest silk, too, of course. Who’s going to waste true purple to dye bad silk? Ten thousand murex shells harvested just for you.”

Liv felt a little sick to her stomach. Silk? True purple? “I meant… I’m really sorry. What I meant is, I don’t have any money. Maybe plain wool? Just one dress?” Truth was, she didn’t even have the money to pay for that, but her pride couldn’t take admitting utter poverty.

“Oh, you pretty little thing, you don’t have to pay! The Lord Omnichrome is taking care of everything. One warm dress, one for everyday wear—that one will be upland Atashian cotton—and one to dazzle. Looks like you could use some new shifts and undergarments, too?”

“Please! I don’t generally… well, war, you know.”

“Of course, of course. And we’ll get you a clean dress to wear in the meantime.”

That offer turned into a clean dress and a hot bath, ostensibly because the old woman didn’t want her getting the dress dirty, but Liv thought the seamstress was happy to have someone to spoil, someone to talk to.

As she scrubbed herself with a sponge and let the hot water unknot her muscles, Liv fought the rush of tears just below the surface. She blew out a breath, feeling like she could cry and she would feel better afterward, but she didn’t want to look all splotchy and swollen. She was sure the old woman wouldn’t care—she had the air of someone who’d understand—but Zymun would come back to pick her up later, and he’d ask. And how can you explain why you were crying when the answer would either take an hour or one word? Neither would make him understand. She’d just look like a weak girl.

Liv blew out another breath.

“That’s a lot of sighing,” the old woman said. Liv hadn’t noticed her come in.

“Have you ever realized that everything you ever believed was a lie?”

“Everything? The sky is green now?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Teasing, child.” The old woman paused, then heaved a little sigh of her own. “I believed my husband was faithful to me. When that fell, it seemed like all the world did with it.”

Liv hesitated.

“No, child. Don’t tell me. I’m a stranger. Take my kindness, but don’t trust so much, so easily. You’re a beautiful young woman in a perilous place. Put on some armor. Just remember what’s armor and what’s you, so when it’s time to take it off, you can.”

The old woman walked out, and Liv knew that she’d done her a kindness greater than she could have by listening to her churning thoughts.

Liv had joined the enemy. She could excuse herself and say that she’d hoped her action might inspire the Color Prince to save Kip and Karris, and it had, but in truth she’d lost faith in everything the Chromeria had taught her. If the fruit is poison, why respect the tree?

But if the Chromeria itself was corrupt, how deep did that corruption go? If they’d taught one lie, how many others had they espoused? It made her feel sick to her stomach, like she was looking into the abyss. If the Chromeria was corrupt, and the Chromeria was supposed to be a central font of Orholam’s will, what did that say about Orholam himself?

How could he let such corruption be? Either he didn’t care, or he didn’t have the power to do anything about it, or he didn’t exist. Liv felt a chill despite the hot water. It was a thought that couldn’t be called back.