“You look around, Gavin, and you tell me if what we have is working.”
Gavin couldn’t even get the Spectrum to declare war even after Tyrea had been lost and Atash invaded. How was that possible? His brother was right. Their system was broken, and it would take a man of will to make something new.
“War is the only way to be named promachos,” Dazen said. “You need a great crisis. You were our perfect opportunity. We could look reluctant going after you. You were my brother. You were Andross Guile’s son. No one would think it was a ploy. But you kept trying to end our war before it could really begin.”
Gavin felt sick. “And General Delmarta. Was he your man all along?” It had been the general’s slaughter of the Atashian royal family that not only mobilized the satrapies against Gavin but also got rid of one of the families that had opposed Andross Guile.
“It was fifty-seven people. You killed more than that in the skirmish at Tanner Creek.”
“It’s different when it’s in cold blood.”
“Is it?” the prisoner asked. “Do they end up less dead?” He blinked, looked over at the wall, as if someone was speaking to him.
Gavin didn’t answer.
“You tell me, brother,” the prisoner said. “Honest question, because I have no way of knowing the answer: how much trouble have you had from Atash since our war?”
It was a body blow. Before the war, the Atashian royals—last remnant of the orders that had existed before Lucidonius—had caused problems and small wars constantly. If the royal family had still been around with their money and influence, their safe havens and their smuggling ships, the Red Cliff Uprising would have been horrendous. As it was, the uprising had failed almost as soon as it began. The slaughter had worked.
“Let me out, brother,” Dazen said. “You’re finished, and you know it. Forgive me for what I said before. Threats and vileness. I didn’t mean it. I just fell into this cell hours ago. I’d thought I was out, and you beat me again. You’ve got an excellent mind, little brother. But your time is done. I can see it in your eyes, and not just in the colors that you’ve lost. You have the smarts, but I have the will, and now the world needs will. There is a threat out there, and it is growing, and only I can save the Seven Satrapies.”
“You were always willing to do what needed to be done,” Gavin said. “That was the difference between us, wasn’t it?” His breath escaped in a long sigh. “It’s all coming apart. There’s no way I can save it. Gavin,” he said, and it was a relief to call his older brother by his real name. “Gavin, I want assurances. Swear to me, swear before Orholam that you won’t take any vengeance on Karris. I don’t know how she’ll react, and I know you may have to exile her, but swear to me you’ll see she’s provided for. And Kip. Same terms.”
Gavin—the real Gavin—squinted, as if considering the terms and the implications they would have on his reign, moving seamlessly from the mad prisoner to the earnest emperor. “In the sight of Orholam, I so swear.”
Gavin the false reached his hand up to the node on the yellow window.
“Wait,” the prisoner said. “Before you let me out. We’ve unfinished business, brother. What do I do with you?” He glanced quickly over at the wall again, a quick crinkle of irritation, instantly smoothed away.
Gavin hesitated. His brother really was magnificent. “I figured you’d kill me. While I’m alive, I’m a threat, aren’t I?”
“You’ve only got a year or so left. Killing you isn’t necessary. Father owns a little island off Melos that would be perfect for an exile. Used to keep a mistress there.”
“That is… quite kind,” Gavin said. “I, I’ve missed you, big brother.” He raised his hand to the node and dissolved the window between them. Then he drew the dagger-pistols from his belt and pulled both triggers. The roar filled the little space as the lead balls blasted through the prisoner’s body. One punched a perfect hole in his sternum. The other smashed through his teeth and blew out the back of his head. The prisoner’s body dropped. Didn’t even twitch. The acrid, comforting aroma of gunpowder followed.
Both pistols had fired. Ilytian handiwork. Gavin could admire that. The Ilytians made fine pistols.
He looked over at the wall, where the prisoner had been glancing repeatedly, but he saw nothing but the reflection of a dead man.
Chapter 85
Waiting was part of life for a Blackguard. It was service as much as throwing yourself in front of a musket or magic. But like most of the Blackguards, Karris hated waiting. She’d come upstairs and heard nothing, then had been instructed to wait for the White, who’d been gone for hours.