The Broken Eye(312)

Liv Danavis was the only one who’d really escaped him. In his defense, she’d been the side excitement while Zymun was involved with a general’s wife. There’d been so much else going on, too. It was a failure, but not one for which he could blame himself. He was young, after all, and he hadn’t perfected his technique.

He was drifting, though. There were plenty of handsome women here, but he wouldn’t pick one only for her looks. Not with his new position.

Maybe on the side. But he’d have to learn who was who before he committed time and energy. His grandfather had kept him in the dark about the nobility, and his own plans.

It meant Andross feared him. Zymun didn’t know whether to be more flattered—an equal!—or irritated. It made things ever so much more difficult. Especially since Zymun needed his grandfather. He couldn’t move against the old man without destroying his own power. Not until he was Prism. Prism-elect could be undone.

Clever old goat.

But what had Andross been doing with Kip just now? Kicking him out? Zymun thought that Andross was going to keep Kip around to guarantee Zymun’s good behavior. Had he simply let his anger get the best of him? He was the Red after all, and old. Stupid.

This morning, in the nauseatingly early hours before dawn when they’d woken to come to the Chromeria, Zymun had done his best to eavesdrop on his grandfather, who was giving orders to his slave, that old wrinkled prune, whatever-his-name-was.

Something about tell him he gets an hour. Him?

That slave had come into the hall with Kip.

Andross was giving Kip an hour to run away. Why would Andross do such a thing?

So Kip would get away. Whatever the plan was, Andross wanted the pursuit to look real, and Kip had an hour.

Zymun fidgeted in his seat and leaned over to his grandfather, who appeared to be listening to the High Luxiat’s sermon intently. “I need to use the latrine,” he said.

Andross said nothing. Eventually he turned a baleful glare on Zymun. “What are you, a child? Hold it.”

Zymun was about to go anyway when the side double doors opened once again. It was a rude way to enter the audience hall when there was another, more subtle entrance at the back, and the hinges creaked loudly. Some slave or discipula would be beaten for that, Zymun hoped.

A woman stepped in, petite, early thirties, skinny, oddly muscular, dark hair. Her dress was rich enough that it was clear she must be of the high nobility. Who would be brash enough to interrupt this ceremony? She was beautiful, though. Rich enough. At her age, certainly married. Maybe she would be a good target for his next seduction. She looked familiar for some reason.

Oh, she saw him now, and she looked transfixed. Zymun was uncommonly handsome. And he was Prism now. Women love a powerful man.

Prism-elect. Damn.

She tore her eyes away from him and looked to the slave at her elbow who was supposed to usher her to a seat. The man seemed flustered; there were no seats up front, where her position obviously demanded she be seated.

Then a noble got up from the very first row. He walked confidently down the center aisle, as the preaching luxiat faltered briefly and then went on about sacrifice and the light of truth or whatever. Zymun felt more than saw Andross cock his head.

The noble waved the slave off and escorted the woman forward. Odd. There were literally no places at the front, and the way the benches were packed, they couldn’t simply make room for her.

But the noble brought the woman, who looked alternately confused and still captivated by Zymun, up to where he’d been seated himself. The noble seated her in his own seat, shot a single inscrutable look at Andross Guile, and then left by the side aisle. Zymun watched him go to the back and take a seat with the low nobles. How odd.

Zymun had a sense that something important had happened, so he looked at Andross Guile, but could read nothing there.

He wasn’t always good at reading emotions, though.

He shifted in his seat again, and said, “Grandfather, I’m going to leave a puddle if I don’t go. Pardon me.”

Without waiting for a response, Zymun went out, head bowed and consternation writ on his face so it was clear he was not trying to cause an interruption. He left by a side exit near the dais.

Blackguards stood at the door both inside and out. After the doors closed behind him, Zymun headed toward the lift.

“Latrines are that way,” a Blackguard offered, pointing the opposite direction.

Zymun ignored him and walked briskly until he came to the Lightguard checkpoint. “Name?” he demanded of the limping commander.

“Lieutenant Aram, sir,” the man said. There was a bit of fear in his face, but he was muscular and sour-looking. Zymun knew how to deal with his type. Not much different than the scurvy-ridden pirates he’d just spent months with.