“No, no, no,” Klytos Blue said. “I see what you’re doing here, Lord Prism.”

Gavin lifted an eyebrow, like, What is this moron doing? “Yes, I’m trying to weaken a rebellion before it sweeps up half the lands in the Seven Satrapies,” he said.

“Which is a noble goal that I share,” Klytos said. He glanced over at Andross, but without eyes, Andross couldn’t give him subtle cues of whether Klytos was on the tack Andross wanted him to take. “But even if the man called himself a king, I think that gives him too much prestige.”

“It is what he called himself,” Jia Tolver said impatiently.

“We needn’t give him that moral high ground; he was rebel, nothing more,” Klytos said. In sub-red, he was clearly warmer than before. But Klytos always got nervous when he spoke, even in front of a group this small.

“What would you prefer, then?” Gavin said. “Illegitimate king, so-called king? Illegitimate satrap?”

“Clearly,” Sadah Superviolet said, scratching at one psoriatic arm, “declaring oneself to be a rebel would vacate one’s legitimacy, thus ‘illegitimate satrap’ would be an accurate descriptor.” She clearly intended this as an olive branch to Klytos Blue.

Gavin turned his hands palm up toward Klytos, as if surrendering the issue to him. “Very well, we can back up further. Would you like to dictate the document, Klytos?” Gavin asked.

Klytos hated public speaking. As the Blue, he felt that he should get all the technicalities exactly right on the first try—and he never did. “No, please, go ahead,” he said, as if he were being polite.

Gavin turned to the chief scribe in the room. “By order of the Color Spectrum, with the full imprimatur of the Prism, blessed by Orholam’s radiance, etcetera.”

The woman scribbled in a few lines, skipping space to fill in the official lines.

“I must confess,” Gavin said to the Spectrum as she scribbled, “I’m disappointed something so simple wasn’t done during my absence. Surely such a condemnation would seem pro forma—never mind. Please interject if you have any suggestions.”

There was still some niggling done over the word “war.” Gavin and Delara championed it, but eventually it was stricken in favor of a condemnation of “visiting violence upon the innocent peoples of the Seven Satrapies” and the illegitimate Satrap Garadul condemned, though the word “traitor” was also stricken. Gavin grimaced briefly, as if this were a setback, but not a huge one. It was a brief document, and he took care not to feign too much boredom.

The “war” bit was the canard. Let them think that he was angling subtly toward declaring war later in the meeting. But don’t overplay your hand.

As soon as the scribe finished, Gavin signed the document and sent it around the table for signatures.

“Now,” Gavin said, not waiting for the signatures, not giving them any weight. “The urgent matter. The reason we’ve come here today: refugees, and war. The fact of the matter is, I do have some personal investment in this issue. I’ll put that on the table. I failed to stop Garadul, and Garriston was lost because of that. I went to fight—perhaps rashly—without the full weight of the Spectrum behind me, and I lost. In losing, I lost face, and some of the people for whom I was fighting lost faith in the Chromeria. Obviously, the former isn’t a problem for this body, but the latter is. I feel a responsibility for the people who have fled. I would like to see this council make some efforts to provide for them. So, again, easy issues first: I’d like to draft another resolution that our satrapies send food, clothing, and supplies to those who’ve been displaced.”

He recognized Delara. “And arms!” she said. “Those refugees will join the fight—at least some of them will—against the Color Prince.”

“I agree with you,” Gavin said. “But I would suggest we put the more contentious issues into a separate resolution, so that we can do the sane and humane thing in providing for those who’ve been attacked by the late Rask Garadul as soon as possible. Will the Spectrum agree to address these issues separately?”

“Let’s agree to what’s immediately obvious to all of us,” Arys Sub-red said. “These refugees are doubtless starving. We can agree that we must send them help. Later we can argue about exactly how much of a share of that burden each of us should send.” Ah, the brass tacks. Arys was ruthlessly practical, even in her charity. Gavin liked that about her.

They agreed by acclaim to consider the issues separately. The first resolution had made it halfway around the room. Gavin had passed it to Klytos, who’d signed it. The White had passed it on. Because she only voted in the case of ties, she never signed any resolution until at least a majority had. Delara signed it and passed it on to Sadah Superviolet. She paused, and Gavin couldn’t tell if it was because she was thinking about the second resolution, or if she had some sudden qualm about the first.

Sadah Superviolet stared at Gavin. She didn’t say anything, but she handed on the resolution without signing it. Arys did, Delara did, and she slid it to Tisis. Tisis gave one more glance to Andross, got nothing, and signed it.

And Gavin had his supermajority. Oh, Tisis. Lunna Green was almost a friend. I never could have done this to her. Do you know what you can do to an enemy but not to a friend? Stab her in the back.

Carver Black slid the paper over in front of Andross. Carver had a voice on the Spectrum, but no vote. Andross whispered to Grinwoody, who responded. Andross asked him another question in a whisper.

Gavin narrowed his eyes to sub-red. And instantly, he saw his father getting hotter, though the man’s expression didn’t alter in any other perceptible way.

Andross started laughing suddenly, and signed his name. Given his blindness, his signature was only in approximately the right place.

The discussion stopped instantly. It was rare to hear Andross Guile laugh.

Andross turned to Tisis. “Do you know what you’ve done, girl?”

“What?” she asked, suddenly worried.

Gavin leaned over and quickly took the parchment from in front of his father and cocked an eyebrow at Sadah. “Will you make it unanimous?” Gavin asked.

“Of course,” she said. It was a moot point now. She signed it, handed it to the White, who sighed, and signed.

“What?” Tisis asked, more insistent.

“Why don’t you explain, son?” Andross Guile suggested.

The head scribe brought the resolution to Gavin, who brought his stick of official sealing wax up to his finger, drafted sub-red directly to it, and pressed his seal on the document, making it official. “Of course, father,” Gavin said. He handed the document to the head scribe, who handed it off to a secretary who would enter it in the annals and publish it.

When the door closed behind the man, Gavin said, “The fact is, we are at war. None of us wants this. I don’t want it. You don’t want to admit it because you’re afraid I’ll press you to declare me promachos again. I understand that fear. Surrendering power is terrifying, though Orholam knows I’ve not given you any reason to distrust me. Tyrea is gone. I suppose that’s just as well. We can fight about what to do next. We can fight about how we fight. But while we bicker, the people who fled Garriston have lost everything. I’m sure you know by now that they’ve found refuge upon Seers Island, and I will report on that fully later today, but winter is upon us. There’s no time for them to plant a harvest. If we don’t provide for them, they’ll die. We brought this on them, and even if you reject that, they are still the subjects of the Seven Satrapies. It is our duty.”