The Burning White (15 page)

“So let’s run this hypothetical,” he said. “We make an alliance. A partnership, as you said. I need you now not to join Kip, and perhaps even to shut the Everdark Gates. And let’s say I accept that because of your nature, I can trust you forever. But I will grow in power far more than you will, and I will close my vulnerabilities in time. Why would you trust me to keep my oaths?”

“Because I bring you a gift. Will-crafting. We’ve both done it in this room this very day. Do you know why the Chromeria forbids will-crafting in all but the most rudimentary forms?”

“They have an especial delight in forbidding things. I’ve given up caring why.”

“You shouldn’t have. An oath binds one’s will to a word, but a drafter
can
bind her will to something more permanent.”

She saw his eyes light up. He was a smart man. If an oath could be magically binding, and anchored to something permanent, any drafter he could force to take an oath of fealty to him would be unable to break that oath—ever.

“This works with gods?” he asked.

“You won’t be as good at doing it as I am,” she said honestly. “And your gods will have a very long time to work against it. You’ll still have to kill them, after a time. Yes, of course I know you plan to do that. Mortals, however? I wouldn’t say it’s permanent, but if it takes them a hundred years to unwind a spell and most of them don’t live half so long, that’s a distinction without a difference, isn’t it? That is why the Chromeria abandoned an entire branch of magical study. It was one of the first pieces of lore the Chromeria erased. True slavery to the gods, for life.”

“That is a handsome gift,” he said. “And now that you’ve given me the lead, perhaps that’s all I require of you.”

A threat. Again. “It will likely take you a hundred years to find a superviolet who can do what I’ve already done, though maybe you’ll get very lucky and it will only take you ten. But these next ten years are when you’ll be most vulnerable. If you can live ten years, you’ll likely live forever. So I know you might kill me out of pique today, but I’m gambling that you’ll take the deal where we both win, both in the short term and in the long.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You can have all the lands of the Seven Satrapies. The nine kingdoms, whatever you wish to call them. You may also have all of the Cerulean Sea. The Everdark Gates, however, will belong to neither of us. A no-man’s-land. Everything within them is yours; everything outside them is mine. No people, no magic, not so much as a rowboat or letter or child is to be sent from one realm to the other. We’ll have mirrors set up on either side to message each other in case of emergencies. Otherwise, nothing. If you wish, have your wars among your humans. Let there be peace between the gods.”

Kip had just done the most brilliant and cynical thing of his entire political career: he’d listened to his wife.

Yesterday, in the privy council chamber, they’d met with the six remaining Divines. With many, many words, the Divines communicated their chagrin at the assassination attempt and commitment to find those responsible. They wished—they said—to help Kip and his marvelous companions in any way possible; therefore, he must understand that this particular refusal wasn’t personal and this particular request was in fact impossible and this small change Kip requested was one they were quite willing to accommodate but would mortally offend some other important group (and that group’s support was necessary for the following list of reasons).

Yesterday, for many long minutes, Kip had actually listened to them. They knew what they were talking about, after all. They had run this city for generations. He’d adjourned the meeting with the thought that it was, frankly, just damned hard to govern a city.

“. . . which sadly has, from time immemorial, been the prerogative of the Keeper herself.”

‘Prerogative.’ The word had stuck to Kip for some reason. Not because it was that odd of a word but because of the landscape of other words used by these old men (never an old woman on the Council of Divines, at least not that survived into the records). ‘Prerogative’ joined ‘tradition’ and ‘customs’ and even ‘demesne,’ the violation of any of which would either ‘needlessly cause terrible offense’ or ‘deeply alienate’ or ‘create antipathy’ or ‘endanger all you’ve accomplished.’

The circumlocutions suddenly sounded familiar, strumming an old and much-hated chord from his past: Kip was being handled.

Mother used to do this, with her drugs, listing all the reasons it was impossible to quit just now.

Power was the Divines’ drug, and Kip was threatening their supply.

What would you do here, father? he’d asked himself.

How had Gavin done it? All Gavin’s life, he’d broken through all the horseshit like this, upending other people’s games and yet emerging not only unscathed but beloved.

Well, let’s see: He was basically all-powerful, and he cajoled, charmed, and used wit and humor to take the edge off of whatever he was going to do anyway. Plus he was incredibly handsome, which never hurt. Oh, and when people defied him, sometimes he’d kill all of them.

So no one went into a meeting with Gavin Guile entirely fearlessly, which meant that when he was charming instead, and told them how it was going to be, most people found themselves nodding along, or even laughing along, admitting it was all for the best.

Kip wasn’t all those things, but maybe, between emulating his father and his grandfather, he might be enough.

That was why Kip had gone to the window and waved to the crowd. But that hadn’t been a full plan, only an intuition of one.

While the old men were conferring with one another again yesterday, Kip had said to the Mighty, ‘I want to turtle-bear their porcelain shop and give the old Divines a heart attack or three. Ideas?’

‘Oh, I have ideas!’ Big Leo said.

‘Ripping people’s arms off is not an idea,’ Kip said. ‘It’s a daydream.’

‘You didn’t even let me tell you what I’d do with them,’ Big Leo complained.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t share it,’ Kip said. Morning had expired, and with his realization that he was being handled, so had his patience. ‘Also Lord Golden Briar has the worst breath I’ve ever smelled.’

‘You’re telling me that’s his
breath
?’ Ben-hadad asked. ‘I thought—’

‘
Gentlemen
,’ Cruxer said as the men came back.

‘Yeah, we don’t know if they’re
all
deaf,’ Ferkudi said, too loudly. ‘I’ve been watching, and Lord Appleton is faking that old-man shuffle.’

Lord Appleton looked over.

‘They’re none of them dumb, either,’ Kip said, carefully screening his mouth against lipreading with a lifted cup.

Winsen hissed, ‘Unlike our pal whose name rhymes with Jerkudi.’

After the meeting adjourned on more empty promises and stalling, Kip had listened to his wife’s idea.

So today, they met the Divines in one of the side gardens, where Tisis made much of the flowers. Then Kip suggested she see some of the exotics the people had been bringing. In no hurry, they made their way to the front of the palace. Kip split his time between pleasantries to the old Divines and greeting people waiting in the long queue to see
Túsaíonn Domhan
that wrapped around the building, more and more spending his time on the people, much to the Divines’ consternation.

Finally, on the way to the front of the palace, they picked up the hundreds of admirers to whom Kip had waved yesterday. Cruxer had not been a fan of this part of the plan, but the people kept a respectful distance once the Mighty demonstrated what that was. They themselves weren’t quite certain what they wanted of Kip.

The Divines looked more and more uncomfortable, but when Lord Aodán Appleton suggested reconvening inside, Kip pretended not to hear. And finally, they made it to the mound of flowers that had been piled out in front of the palace, partly in thanks to Kip’s Nightbringers for liberating the city and partly to cover the smell of the putrefying and still hanging Divine and conn.

By tradition, the men’s bodies were to stay in place for several days more yet. The stench was nearly intolerable. Kip stopped at the top of the steps as Tisis pretended to admire the flowers here. The Divines were painfully aware of their dead compatriots nearby, though none dared look at them.

Kip said, “You’ve told me we need a full council to have a quorum to vote on certain matters, matters that must be decided immediately. So let’s agree—”

“New councillors! Yes!” Lord Rathcore said. “Just what a conn is for!”

“A conn?” Kip asked as if this were a surprise. It was supposed to be a great honor, and they’d been trying to extract all sorts of concessions from him in return while only hinting it might be possible. In reality, he was being asked to pay for the privilege of eating two slices of warm bread hiding a turd.

Being named conn
was
an honor, and it would give him legitimacy that wasn’t derived from his father or grandfather. It would be something he’d earned himself. He wanted that, and they obviously sensed that.

But by law and tradition, a conn had significant limits to his power here. By assenting to a defined role and swearing to its oaths, Kip would be assenting to its limits, too. The Divines weren’t offering a gift; they were offering Kip chains decorated with gold filigree.

“No,” Kip said. “I don’t have time for the frippery and delay. I’ll give you my suggestions. You can approve them if you do so unanimously, yes? I suggest Lady Proud Hart and Lady Greenwood.”

Their heads did not literally explode, but several of them turned shades redder.

“My lord,” Lord Appleton said, “we could make you conn within the hour. It would honor our ways, and then perhaps we might even”—he looked like he was trying to swallow a mouthful of salt—“come to an agreement on
one
of those noble matriarchs.”

“You’re not hearing me,” Kip said. “I don’t want the position.” He was feeling red, and he almost insulted the pointless position itself—which would have been an insult to the whole city.

“Milord,” Lord Spreading Oak said patiently as if trying to counsel reason, “becoming conn is the only way for you to accomplish all you think you need to do.”

“Funny,” Kip said, “the last conn believed that was true, too.” He looked up at the hanged, rotting Conn Hill. “Tell me, Lord Spreading Oak, if a man has as much power as a king but not the name, is he more or less than a king?”

By long tradition and by an explicit oath as he took office, a conn couldn’t become a king. It was one of the stupider things they were trying to keep from Kip’s grasp. King? He didn’t even want to be a mayor!

A thrill went through the crowd at the very word ‘king,’ and the Divines alternately blanched and went purple. It was one nice thing about these northerners’ pallid skin: it made them so easy to read sometimes.

Lord Spreading Oak could find no words.

Kip said, “My esteemed Lords Divine, when the bandit king Daragh the Coward arrives tomorrow with his thousands of raiders and runaway drafters and slave-takers and desperate men, I should like to be here to protect you. But later today, I’m meeting with Satrap Willow Bough’s ambassador. He’s going to ask to me to abandon Dúnbheo and bring my forces to lift the siege on Green Haven—also a worthy and necessary fight. Now, if I’m to stay, if I’m to help this city I so love, I need your help. Can you find it in your hearts to help me, please?”

The crowd heard only that Kip wanted to save them, again, and that the Divines were somehow driving him out of the city instead. Ugly suggestions rippled through them, and the air took on a palpable menace.

The Divines looked at the mob uneasily, and then at each other.

“My mama suicided just like that,” Gunner announced, heedless of all cues.

Gavin lay stretched out sunning himself on the hard, unforgiving deck of the ship’s forecastle, his eyes closed, still adjusting to the harsh, bleached sunlight of freedom after his long stint in darkness.

Gunner’s voice was like a child pounding on the door when you’re in the middle of a bad lay: Gavin wasn’t enjoying himself as much as he’d expected, but what he was doing was a lot more enjoyable than what he was being called to do.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Captain,” he said, shading his eyes and cracking them open briefly—only because Gunner was the kind of man who might stomp on Gavin’s head if he thought he wasn’t being shown the proper respect.

Gavin had told himself he needed to get sun, needed to get his eyes reaccustomed to the light, needed to feel the light on his skin in case just maybe his disability was healing itself. Or something.

He was better at lying to others, though, than to himself. No, Gavin was lying about, seeking an idyll and finding himself merely idle.

Closing his eyes as if to fend off the captain through his obvious exhaustion, Gavin reached out his fingertips, wishing they might dip into the sapphire waters as they had that morning he touched the sea demon.

Eyes? Eye. Funny how he still thought of them in the plural, while at other times he couldn’t ignore the jagged black monstrosity strapped to him in that eye patch, feeling like it was trying to burrow into his head.

“Y’ain’t gonna ask, is ya?” Gunner said.

He moved into Gavin’s sun, swaying with the waves, so that Orholam’s one eye blinded Gavin’s one eye only half the time.

Instead of conjuring that morning of peace, arms spread touching the waters, and that numinous creature, the memory that came swimming serpentine to the surface was of the day he’d been shackled spread-eagled in the hippodrome, as Orholam stared down, pitiless or powerless, and Gavin’s eye was burnt out by a very apologetic chirurgeon. When she wasn’t burning out people’s eyeballs with a white-hot poker, she was probably quite nice.

Ha. People had thought the same of him, on Sun Days, as he slaughtered so many.

“That evil eye of yourn,” Gunner said with a shudder. That was his charming name for the black jewel that would kill Gavin if he tried to remove it. “It still shivs me the givers.”

Go away, Gunner.