Karris stood, wobbled, and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her. “Who are you?”

“I’m Corvan Danavis,” the drafter said. “And if I don’t misremember, you’re Karris White Oak, aren’t you?”

“Danavis?” she asked. Orholam how she hurt. “You were Dazen’s. A rebel. I can make it on my own, thank you.” She shrugged off his help, leaned crazily to one side, then the other, and finally collapsed. He watched, arms folded, and didn’t catch her. Her shoulder hit the ground and the world swam.

Karris saw Corvan’s boots come close. He was probably going to leave her here for the soldiers. She deserved it, too. Stupid, stubborn girl.

Chapter 28

The dory Gavin drafted while they were still five leagues from Little Jasper Island was modeled on one he’d seen an Abornean wild drafter use, with high sides and a flat bottom, a pointed prow, and a flat bow plate. It was safer and far less efficient than the sculls Gavin preferred, but that was the point. Not many drafters dared to use a scull on the ocean, because if you were going to use a scull on the ocean, you had to be willing to fall in the water. That meant being confident of getting out of the water solely by drafting, and not many drafters had the skill or the will to swim in rough seas and draft at the same time.

Gavin’s skill—or recklessness—meant his usual silhouette on the open sea was instantly recognizable. He didn’t want that. Thus the dory.

Kip was sulking, nervous about the Thresher and Gavin’s refusal to tell him anything about it.

Within a couple of leagues, they passed two merchant galleys and a galleass. Each time, a mate inspected them through a spyglass, saw Gavin’s muddled clothes and no distress flags, and rowed past without a word. There was little wind today, so the sailors got to rest while galley slaves manned their banks of oars. Each time he encountered another ship, Gavin waved gamely when the spyglass came out, and returned to his own oars.

What people called the Chromeria was really two islands: Little Jasper, covered entirely by the Chromeria itself, and Big Jasper, home to embassies, merchants’ estates, shops, stalls, taverns, brothels, prisons, flophouses, tenements, warehouses, rope makers, sail makers, oar turners, fishermen, convict slaves, and far more than its fair share of graspers, schemers, and dreamers.

Big Jasper had two large natural harbors, one on the east that provided natural protection during the dark season, and one on the west for the light season, when the storms came from the east. As the island had grown in population and importance, breakwaters had been built on each side so both harbors could be used year-round. After several occupations, which had never touched the Chromeria but had purged Big Jasper in fire and blood, a wall had been built to encircle the entire island. Thirty paces thick and twenty high, it was now used mostly by the city’s runners to spot and stop crimes in the streets below.

Gavin’s business was on Little Jasper, but he couldn’t dock in its single, smaller harbor without being seen by spies from every one of the Seven Satrapies. Even Tyrea would have a spy watching those who were important enough to dock there directly. So he rowed them between the two islands. Between the jaws of Little Jasper’s U-shaped harbor was Cannon Island. Only twenty men were garrisoned there at any time, and there were always two drafters on duty, ostensibly because of the hazards of docking on the island when there was anything more than the gentlest tide and lightest wind. It was a loathed posting, and one from which not even the Blackguards escaped. It was thought that the White kept the rolls restricted to higher-ranked Chromeria guards in order to be able to teach humility to a certain class of men and women who tended to be a little more brash than was good for themselves.

And indeed, the White and the Black did use postings to Cannon Island as punishment, but only for trusted soldiers. The fiction worked better if it was half true. When other soldiers traded postings—I’ll take your Cannon Island post next week if you’ll just take my rounds this next weekend—the watch commander noted the names of anyone who switched. Those were then watched carefully while they were on duty, and more carefully afterward. Spies had certainly infiltrated the island, which was strategically important for purely mundane reasons, but none had yet—the White believed—penetrated Cannon Island’s real importance.

Amid the crashing waves of high tide, Gavin brought the dory around the back of the island. With his drafted multitude of oars, he had far greater control than he would have had over a mundane boat, but it was still tricky business to line up with the rollers erected long ago so boats could be pulled clear of even storm-height waves. They’d been seen, of course, and two Blackguards—Blackguards were always given the boat duty—greeted them.

The men, imposing brothers with coal-black skin, recognized Gavin instantly. Each held up a hand—not in greeting, but to give Gavin a stable target. He aimed superviolet at each hand, stuck it there, and then flung a coil of green luxin along that stable thread. Like rope, the luxin stuck in each big man’s hand. Gavin fastened the other ends directly to the boat with two small globs of red luxin. The men pulled him in expertly. The dory rattled as it settled awkwardly from the waves onto the rollers and then slipped smoothly up the ramp.

Commander Ironfist, the elder brother, spoke first, as always: “Sir.” His eyes flicked down to Gavin’s tattered clothes. The “sir” was his laconic equivalent of, Of course I recognize you, but if this is supposed to be a disguise, I’m smart enough not to ruin it. What do you want us to call you today?

“I’ll need a Blackguard to take Kip to the Chromeria, Commander. I’ve told him about the escape tunnel, by the by, so keep an eye on him.”

Both men absorbed that in displeased silence.

“We’ll need to wait until low tide for—” Tremblefist began.

“Immediately,” Gavin said, not raising his voice. “He’s to be put through the Thresher. No rush, tomorrow will be fine. Report the results to the White. Tell her Kip is my… nephew.”

Ironfist’s eyebrow twitched, and Tremblefist’s eyes widened. Kip, on the other hand, looked stricken.

Gavin looked at the boy, but Kip seemed suddenly shy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gavin said. “You’ll do fine. After all, you’ve got my blood.” He smirked.

Kip looked baffled. “You mean you’re not… saying I’m not your, um, bastard?” Kip himself looked confused with all the negatives.

“No no no. I’m not disavowing you! When I say ‘nephew,’ everyone knows what it means. It’s just more polite. And it pays to be polite where the White is involved.”

Ironfist coughed. He could cough quite pointedly.

Gavin looked at him pointedly in return. Ironfist adjusted his ghotra, his checkered Parian headscarf, as if oblivious.

“But how do people know I’m not really your nephew?” Kip asked. He was still clutching the luxin oar Gavin had drafted for him.

“Because they’ll pause like it’s delicate, and not say your surname. ‘This is Kip, the Lord Prism’s… nephew.’ Not, ‘This is Kip Guile, the Lord Prism’s nephew.’ You see?”

Kip swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Gavin looked across the waves to the Prism’s tower. He hated being gone overnight. His room slave Marissia would dye the bread and throw it in the chute for the prisoner, and he knew he could trust her. But that was different from doing it himself. He looked back to the frightened boy.