They did, and climbed the stairs to street level while locals looked at them curiously. After they were all off, Gavin touched a corner of the stairs. All the luxin in the scull lost coherence and dissolved, falling into the water as dust, grit, and goo depending on its color. The yellow even flashed a little, much of its mass translated back into light, and the water popped up a little, suddenly freed of the weight of the scull. Gavin, of course, paid it all no heed.

This is normal for him. What kind of world have I stepped into? If Gavin were at dinner and misplaced his knife, he’d draft one rather than get up and look. If his cup were dirty, he’d draft a new one rather than clean the old. That gave Kip a thought.

“Gavin—er, Lord Prism, why don’t drafters wear luxin?” Kip asked.

Gavin grinned. “They do, sometimes. Obviously, yellow breastplates and such are highly valued in battle, but I’m guessing you mean as clothes.”

“You use magic for everything,” Kip said.

“That’s me,” Gavin said. “A normal drafter isn’t going to shorten her life just so she doesn’t have to dock her scull another fifty paces out. Well, some would, of course. The truth is, there was a fashion of wearing luxin clothing once, when I was a boy. With the application of enough will, even some kinds of sealed luxin can become fairly flexible. Soon, there were drafter-tailors who specialized in the clothing. But most people couldn’t afford them, and if you make your own, there are any number of mistakes you can make. Some are fairly harmless, like making your pant legs too stiff. But if you made a mistake in the drafting, your shirt might dissolve into dust in the middle of a day. Or”—Gavin cleared his throat—“certain mischievous boys might learn how to unseal the luxin that the tailor-drafters had woven. These boys might have caused some chaos at a memorable party, where the ladies who’d gone to the expense of even having luxin undergarments found themselves in particular distress.” His mouth tightened, hiding a grin at a memory. “Sadly, the fashion ended rather abruptly after that.”

“That was you? I heard about that party,” Liv said.

“I’m sure whatever you heard was much exaggerated,” Gavin said.

“No,” Ironfist said. “It wasn’t.”

Gavin shrugged. “I was a bad child. Fortunately, I’ve come a long way since then. Now I’m a bad man.” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Here we go,” he said as three Ruthgari men approached.

The three all wore what looked to Kip like wool sheets with a hole cut for the head, carefully folded so there were pleats at their wide leather belts. The garment—a tunic?—then fell to the men’s knees. Though their legs were bare, the wool seemed entirely inappropriate for Tyrea’s climate, and all three were sweating freely. All wore leather sandals, though the guards’ laced up into shin armor. The guards each carried a pilum, and a gladius and a crude pistol at their belts. The man in the lead, apparently in charge, had his tunic embroidered at the hem and on each breast. He carried a scroll, a large bag slung over one shoulder, and a heavy purse at his belt. He wore a pair of clear spectacles low on his nose.

Clear spectacles? What kind of drafter would want clear spectacles?

But as the men came close, Kip realized the man wasn’t a drafter at all. His eyes were clear brown. The men were also all pale, a common Ruthgari trait, Kip guessed. With their skin barely bronzed, they weren’t pale or freckled like Blood Foresters, but they still seemed pretty ghostly. Their hair was a normal dark hue from brown to black, but straight, and fine. They walked with either authority or hauteur. Kip glanced at Liv. She was definitely taking their attitude as the latter. She practically sneered at them. Kip thought she might spit at their feet.

“I am the assistant portmaster,” the man said. “Where’s your vessel? The tax is levied according to size and term of stay.”

“I’m afraid the size of our vessel is negligible at the moment,” Gavin said.

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Where’d you dock?”

“Right about there,” Gavin said, pointing.

The assistant portmaster looked, then glanced up and down the wall, squinting. There were no ships within fifty paces. He folded his arms, his jaw setting as if Gavin were making fun of him. “The tax isn’t heavy, but let me assure you, the penalty for attempting to evade taxation is.”

One of the guards tapped the assistant portmaster’s shoulder, but the man ignored him.

“As it should be,” Gavin said, still polite. He handed over a letter.

The man held the letter low, so he was looking through his spectacles, like he was going to draft the letters right into words. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Oh, oh!”

The man’s head snapped up, and he peered at Gavin’s eyes through his spectacles. “Oh! My Lord Prism! A thousand pardons! Please, my lord, let us accompany you to the fortress. It would be a great honor to us.”

Gavin inclined his head.

“I sort of thought you’d pick them all up with magic and shake them or something,” Kip said, once they all fell in behind the guards and the assistant portmaster.

“There’s a time to toss idiots around,” Gavin said. “But this man’s just doing his job.” They walked into the shadow of the fortress, whose northern wall nearly overhung the harbor. Both of them looked up. There were archers walking along the top of the wall, looking down at them. “Besides,” Gavin said, “you start throwing luxin around, you never know who’s going to answer with gunfire.”

The assistant talked to the men guarding the gate. Lots of furtive glances at Gavin followed. Kip was busy looking at the fortress. The gate, and the entire fortress, was carved travertine. Mellow green, incised with a crosshatched pattern to make the stone look woven rather than carved. There were a number of murder holes cut in the gate. As the soldiers opened the gate, Kip saw that it led to a short killing ground, entirely enclosed, with murder holes everywhere, then another gate. The guards at the second gate, which was open, carried muskets with almost bell-shaped muzzles. These guns were also shorter than the muskets the guards at the Chromeria carried.

Kip was next to Ironfist now, so he asked, “Why are their muskets so short?”

“Blunderbusses,” Ironfist said. “Instead of a ball, they load them with cobblers’ nails or chain. At short range you can hit four or five men. Or blow a good hole in one. Good for rioters. A man cut in half isn’t any less dead than one with a small hole in his heart, but he’s a much greater deterrent to everyone else in the crowd.”

“Nice,” Kip said, swallowing.

After a few more checkpoints, at which they accrued a few more senior guards, they climbed several floors. When they were on the third floor, they passed an open door to chambers overlooking the sea. Gavin stopped abruptly. Their escorts didn’t notice immediately. Ignoring them, Gavin walked into the room.

Ironfist, Kip, and Liv followed him. The room was a suite of apartments, filled with paintings, pillows, screens with ornate paintings of hunts, fireplaces, several chandeliers, and great long-handled fans for room slaves to waft their masters. Everywhere Kip looked, things sparkled, shined, and gleamed.

“This,” Gavin announced as his escorts hurried in, “will be sufficient…”