The Broken Eye(73)

High Luxiat Jorvis opened the door. “Lord Prism. We’re running behind. We’ll have to put off your refreshment until—”

“No.”

“Very well. Your next penitent is waiting. Her name is—”

“No!”

And as soon as his voice was raised, Commander Anamar of the Blackguards was standing there, threatening, his attention and menace turned toward Gavin. Gavin would ruin him for that.

“It’s not enough time,” Gavin said.

“There’s no choice. The ceremony must be finished by dawn. We agreed—”

Furious, Gavin walked down the hallway, toward the revelers outside. Commander Anamar stepped in front of him, blocking the door.

“If you want to have the use of your knees ever again,” Gavin said, “you’ll get on them now, and get the hell out of my way.”

The man looked to High Luxiat Jorvis, then stepped aside. He didn’t get on his knees.

Gavin went out past him and took the steps up the podium two at a time. He sent two jets of fire into the afternoon air to get everyone’s attention.

He couldn’t remember what words he’d summoned. Oratory had become second nature to him. Something about a momentous year, and a heartbreaking one. Something about Orholam’s heaven becoming richer at the price of those who would miss these drafters. Something about special circumstances requiring special action. Some false humility and misdirection.

“I, who serve as your Prism, I covet the time I get with each penitent in Orholam’s presence. These are the holiest moments I know, and for my sake, I have asked Orholam that he not be too harsh a master with me. And Orholam is merciful! He has given me a special dispensation! I will meet with and shrive each penitent to be Freed for as long as necessary, even if it takes three days! The parties here will continue, at my own personal expense, until we have honored our dear drafters appropriately!”

A roar went up at that. Two minutes, to be shrived? After giving up your life for the satrapies? No one had liked it. Not even the luxiats who’d insisted on it. By claiming this special dispensation was for him and his own weakness, Gavin had come across as humble. Everyone knew, or would figure out in the next two days, that meeting for longer with each meant he’d just doubled his own burden, if not more.

But if one is going to be a fraud, one ought to do it well.

He jumped off the stage and headed back inside, past agape managers and slave overseers and luxiats who had just seen the labors required of them also double, the logistical nightmare, the long hours they would have to put in so that Gavin would look good. “Make it so,” Gavin said. “I don’t care how. Do it.”

Inside, he walked past Commander Anamar and toward the next room. He paused at the door and turned back to the frowning Blackguard. “Oh, Commander, I almost forgot.” Gavin had draped invisible superviolet in nets around the commander’s legs as he’d walked down the hall, and now he shot green luxin up and along those nets. The green luxin wrapped around the commander’s knees before he could react. Gavin clenched a fist and the green luxin crushed both of the commander’s knees.

The commander dropped to the floor, admirably without crying out.

Dear Orholam, Gavin had been brash, but it had worked. Now he would have thought through what friends the commander had, who would be offended, whether they would take vengeance—and in the time he would have taken the window for such an action would have closed. Gavin had gotten away with a lot on brute charisma.

“Have your replacement report to me by the time I finish,” he said.

But the dream didn’t end there.

He walked into the little room and shrived an Atashian green, Prayan Navayed, who confessed to cheating her employer, and to sloth in service, and to frequent defiance, and to beating the other slaves unnecessarily harshly.

Then came Jaleh Rodrez. She was a red. Lust, pride, wrath.

Tahlia Blue. Wrath, envy, sabotaging her sister’s marriage.

Khordad Cruzan. A blue/green. Pride. Hatred of most of her family, hatred of her employer, hatred of even Orholam.

Estefania Kamael. A red. Bitterness and hatred.

Nairi Patel. A green. So close to wight she couldn’t articulate anything.

Belit Beraens. A blue. Pride.

Bilit Beraens. Her twin. A blue. Pride. Even proud she’d outlasted her older twin, if only by a few minutes. Gavin didn’t point out that since Belit had been born a few minutes earlier, her dying a bit earlier meant they were really about equal.

Alondra Patel. A superviolet. So close to wight she had to be held down.

Ada Khan. Envy. Fear. She was a mess of tears. Couldn’t find her bravery no matter how Gavin tried to inspire her. The luxiats had to hold her down.